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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25757980">The Heartrender</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/juniebugg/pseuds/juniebugg'>juniebugg</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The True Daughter Duology [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo, The Hunger Games (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Shipwrecked, Blood and Injury, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Imprisonment, Inspired by Six of Crows, Witch!Katniss, witch-hunter!Peeta</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:48:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>20,083</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25757980</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/juniebugg/pseuds/juniebugg</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He hated her. He hated her for what she was: an abomination, a demon sent to tear at the fabric of the natural world. He hated her for making him want to laugh. He hated her for being so brazen and sensuous and everything the women of his country were never allowed to be. But mostly he hated her because he realized he didn’t hate her. Not even a little bit.</em>
</p><p>After a shipwreck has left an abducted witch and a member of the ominous Order bent on wiping out her kind stranded on the icy shores of an uninhabited land, the two must work together to survive or face tearing each other apart in the process.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The True Daughter Duology [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2279600</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>108</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>191</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Ashes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>'The Heartrender' is inspired by Nina Zenik and Matthias Helvar from Leigh Bardugo's book <em>Six of Crows,</em> though you do not need to have read it to understand the plot. But if you are familiar with that story you'll see some similarities between their experience being shipwrecked together to what Katniss and Peeta go through here, plus everything else I've sprinkled in. </p><p>This story does not take place in the Grishaverse (the world of <em>Six of Crows</em>) but is heavily influenced by it. The countries of Sjorkden and Krell, as well as Katniss' language (Krellian), the academy, and the Order are my own. </p><p>This fic has blood, injury, sex, and a lot of arguing in it. I would also like to bring attention to the Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault and Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution tags. They are brief and not graphic, but they are important to Katniss' character and her relationship with Peeta.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which a ship sinks.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>'<em>Sjorkden</em>' pronounced as: /<em>jorkden</em>/<br/>'<em>Jųlaik</em>' pronounced as: /<em>julye</em>/</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>We know </em>
</p><p>
  <em> so perfectly </em>
</p><p>
  <em> how to give birth </em>
</p><p>
  <em> to the monsters </em>
</p><p>
  <em> inside us, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> but for reasons I </em>
</p><p>
  <em> will never figure out, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> we have not the slightest </em>
</p><p>
  <em> clue of what to do </em>
</p><p>
  <em> with all the </em>
</p><p>
  <em> love. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> -Christopher Poindexter </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Peeta had imagined his death many times. A slit throat or an ax in the chest. Perhaps run through with a sword and thrown from a cliff. A warrior’s death, a man’s death, as was expected of him in his service to Sjorkden. Never did he think he’d pass bloodlessly and without a foe to fight. Yet here he was. </p><p>Drowning. </p><p>The frigid water wrapped around his body like a salt casing, waterlogging his shoes and pulling at the cloth of his uniform. He imagined clammy hands latching onto his limbs, dragging him down, down, down. In the harrowing moments before he ran out of air, Peeta watched soft orange light filter down to the inky black depths of the ocean floor. Below him gaped miles and miles of seawater, and he would be lost to it. </p><p>He prepared himself for what was to come, slowly counting down the seconds to when he would snort salt water into his lungs and end it. No use in prolonging the inevitable, though his dreams lay like air pockets in his stomach, lifting him to hope there was still time for him to change things. To achieve something with the life he would have had if not for this stroke of bad luck. </p><p>Water pressed at his lips like an unwelcome guest. He was truly out of air now and the suffocating vacuum in his chest was enough to burst him apart from the inside out. The tips of his fingers began to tingle painfully, oxygen deprivation or the effects of cold, he couldn’t tell. </p><p>His last thoughts before he lost consciousness were of the countdown to drowning himself. </p><p>Three… two… </p><p>And then nothing. </p><hr/><p>Peeta awoke to an embrace. Thin arms twined about his ribcage, hoisting him above the frothy crests of waves. </p><p>His people believed in <em> Gratka, </em> the valley of heaven, the holy place of worshippers, warriors, and the most pious of women. A divine world spun from light and cloud, flowing with rivers of honey wine and heavy with the scent of eternal orchards. Peeta was not sure if he had been worthy of <em> Gratka, </em>but surely the chasms of hell would have been hotter than this. </p><p>He jerked his head about, trying to get his bearings back. His lips dripped with saltwater and his lungs burned with every ragged inhale. </p><p>He and his companion were bobbing on the frigid waves. The sky wheeling above was full of black, ominous storm clouds and the ship, <em>The Bloody Rose, </em> was on fire. </p><p>He hadn’t meant to, but he must have let out a cry because suddenly the arms tightened around him and a pair of lips pressed against his ear. </p><p>“You can’t save them. Just help me swim.” Then a strangled grunt and a: “Gods, you’re heavy. What do they feed you? Horses?” The words were choked, spoken in the voice of someone who had swallowed too much seawater and was struggling against the current. She spoke in Krellian, a sharp language of hissing consonants and hard breaks, only punctuated by the occasional swooping vowel. He twisted to face her, his lip curling in disgust when he saw those flashing silver eyes. </p><p>The witch. </p><p>How had she gotten out of her cell? </p><p>Her eyes bulged in panic as he kicked away, ripping himself from the circle of her arms. </p><p>“No!” she screamed as she grabbed at him, but without her there to buoy him, his head quickly slipped beneath the waves once more. His arms felt sluggish and he realized with a paralyzing rush of cold that she had been keeping his blood warm with her <em>magic</em>. </p><p>He struggled to break the surface, coughing up a mouthful of seawater and thrashing about as he tried to find her once more in the dark. “Witch?” he sputtered, ashamed of the sharp edge of fear in his voice. They reached out for one another, barely holding on by their fingertips as a wave crashed overhead, but then it passed and they were righted once more. He didn’t try to get away this time, afraid of his dipping heart rate and the hazy rush of dizziness that quickly abated with her touch. He didn’t feel warm, but the numb ache in his limbs lessened. He pulled her to his chest, locking her body within his arms. </p><p>“We can make it to shore, but I need you to kick. I can’t swim and keep both our hearts beating.”</p><p>He blinked the water from his stinging eyes, already exhausted from treading water. </p><p>She pressed the back of her head into his shoulder in frustration. “<em>Jųlaik, </em>” she begged. </p><p>
  <em> Please. </em>
</p><p>He grunted in reply and then started swimming. In return, she kept their hearts beating despite the cold. They weren’t sure which way the shore was. For all they knew, Peeta could be bringing them further out to sea, but with every passing minute, the blazing ship they’d escaped from grew smaller and smaller until it collapsed in on itself, a charred heap dipping below the waves.</p><p>Not only had Peeta’s brothers in arms been on that ship, but Peeta’s <em>future </em>had been on that ship. Seventeen witches, four of which <em>he </em>had captured and that <em>he </em>could claim, all dead, except for one.</p><p>In his service as a witcher, he had brought forty-six witches to court and he had witnessed them all, his bounties, burn at the stake. The sweet stink of smoke and the way that charred flesh falls away from bone were all too familiar. This was his country’s way. This was justice. Four more would have won him his freedom, his manhood, his honor. Four more witches and he would have held the world in his palm like a flowering bud ready for plucking. All the blood and sweat and sleepless nights spent scouring the wastelands of countries far from home would have been worth it. </p><p>Hours passed. The storm clouds released their last torrents of icy rain and then cleared to reveal a bright purple smattering of stars above, carving their ancient celestial paths across the sky. The only sounds were his labored breathing and the sloshing of waves, the occasional whimper from her. Peeta’s legs felt as if they were going to fall off, both burning from the physical exertion and freezing in the arctic water. Nerves endings didn’t know what sensation to succumb to, retreating into numbness. He felt as if he were kicking around two wet logs. </p><p>The witch hadn’t spoken since the ship disappeared, but Peeta could tell by the sound of gnashing teeth that it was taking everything in her to keep them from freezing to death. He almost laughed at the irony of the situation. The witch and the witch hunter. Not a pair destined for groundbreaking teamwork. </p><p>So why had she saved him?</p><p>Dawn peeked over the horizon, pulling smoldering pinks and oranges upwards like the curtain on a theatre stage. Violet stars faded and the moon became a pale white ghost of its nighttime brilliance. </p><p>“There,” the witch whispered through chattering teeth, her voice weak with exhaustion. Peeta turned his head to see what she had gestured to. </p><p>A coastline with tall cliffs crusted in ice and snow, and there at the shore, a black stretch of beach. Peeta swam on against the surf, the waves pushing them back out as if the ocean wasn’t quite ready to let them go. Finally, Peeta touched bottom and they crawled to land, collapsing on the sand with water lapping at their ankles. The two were heaving and freezing and giddy with the fact that they were <em>alive</em>, against all odds they had survived, though the silent celebration didn’t last long. The air was bitter and their wet skin puckered beneath its needle-sharp caress. They needed to find shelter, and fast, or the witch’s magic wouldn’t be enough to keep them alive. </p><p>Movement was hard. Peeta’s body felt as stiff as a piece of plywood and each attempt to stand left him trembling under his own weight. He looked back at the witch lying prone in the sand. Her hair was a tangled mess and clung to her face in dark, wet clumps. He almost thought she wouldn’t make it, that she’d just stay collapsed and never get up again. But she managed to rise onto her hands and knees, and then slowly to her feet. </p><p>They didn’t talk as they climbed a narrow pass up the cliffside. The rock was black and smooth, flowing magma that had cooled, dotted here and there with the greenish-brown blooms of lichen. Perhaps the land had once been volcanic, but that must have been a very long time ago. </p><p>As they reached the top of the cliffside, they found themselves marooned in a land of winter. Sharp white mountains jutted up in the misty distance and the foothills that spread out before them were dotted with boulders and stretches of snow and the shrubby, paling vegetation that hinted at a short growing season. It was a harsh land where only the most adaptable species could survive, and Peeta knew if they didn’t find a cave or some sort of outcropping to huddle in soon, they’d be done for. </p><p>Luckily, they stumbled across a cluster of circular lodges at the top of the cliff. The witch, shuddering so violently Peeta almost thought she could be seizing, disappeared past the thick curtain that acted as a door, shuddered one final time, and then collapsed onto a pile of discarded furs. </p><p>Peeta limped inside and scanned the den. It had been constructed and then abandoned by whalers, though whaling expeditions were only undertaken in the spring. The walls were layers of tanned animal skin and were held up by thin ashwood beams running from floor to curved ceiling. They looked like the bones of a rib cage that had been bleached chalk-white in the sun. A thick column stood sentinel at the structure’s center so the roof wouldn’t sag and beneath it lay a small fire pit with a few half charred logs. The lodge was designed to house upwards of fifteen people, whalers with thick cloaks and packs full of food and supplies, but now just sheltered two shivering, salt-crusted water rats with nothing. The whole place smelled of wet fur and welcomed Peeta with open, shadowy arms.</p><p>“We should start a fire,” Peeta croaked, his throat ravaged by salt and exertion. He nudged the witch with the toe of his boot when she didn’t respond. “Are you dead?”</p><p>A part of him wanted her to be. He hated owing her for his life, a debt he knew he would have to repay before this horrible nightmare was over. But if the swim had killed her, he wouldn’t have felt a shred of guilt. </p><p>He circled her and saw that she was in fact very much alive. Her eyes were propped open, wide and glassy, as if she didn’t have eyelids, shot through with red where there should have been white. She was chanting he realized. Praying perhaps. </p><p>The intensity of her muttering scared him. </p><p>“Hey!” He kicked her shoulder and the witch’s eyes cleared. “Stop that, it’s freaking me out.” </p><p>She glared up at him. “Never interrupt me again.” </p><p>“Why?" he sneered. "So you can curse me? Blind me or make me impotent? Cast a horrible death upon me and all my descendants?” Witches were known for curses. Pregnant women whose unborn babes had offered strong kicks days before, born bright blue and as limp as dead worms. Men cursed to wander the forests in circles until they clawed out their own eyes and finally died of blood loss. Children swallowed up by thick mountain mists, never to be seen again. Entire stretches of farmland, even cities of stone, decimated. Death. Woe. Suffering. All at the hands of a wretched few. </p><p>“I have not cursed you. Your allegiance to a false God has done that.”</p><p>“And yet, here we are in the same predicament. Seems your gods have doomed you as well.”</p><p>This struck a nerve. Perhaps the same thought had been pressing on her mind because she narrowed her eyes and bunched her fists in the fur she lay atop of. “If I had the strength I would burn that blackened heart of yours right out of your chest.”</p><p>“Should I be worried about tomorrow then?”</p><p>“Very.” She rose to face him, hatred pouring forth from her eyes and twining about her head like a poisonous snake baring its fangs.</p><p>He met it with a hardened look of his own. “I’m still waiting on a ‘thank you’ for dragging you out of the ocean,” he said.</p><p>“And I’m waiting on a ‘thank you’ for keeping your tiny heart from shriveling up. Trust me, it was no easy task.” </p><p>He smiled coldly. “My, you have a big mouth for someone so small.” </p><p>“And you have a big head for someone with such little brains.” </p><p>He almost laughed, but they had been through a lot and Peeta was tired of arguing. He crossed to the fire pit and ignored the eyes boring into the back of his head. </p><p>“What? No response?” she goaded bitterly, but Peeta didn’t rise to her bait, focusing instead on starting a fire. After scraping two jagged rocks together, there was a spark. Thankfully the kindling was dry and after a few harsh blows and a prayer, Peeta was successful. The fire was delicious, like a tiny heart slowly beating life back into his frozen fingers. </p><p>He realized that this was the first time in weeks that he and the witch hadn’t been separated by iron bars. </p><p>As if in response to the shameful flush of heat that radiated through his body at the thought, he heard a muffled sound, like a bird’s wings rubbing together, and turned his head. </p><p>The witch’s dress was off, her body bared to him. Her small, rounded breasts and jutting hips shone like bronze in the soft light. </p><p>Peeta’s cheeks flamed, afraid that he had been caught staring. “What are you doing?” he sputtered as he moved to shield his eyes. </p><p>She turned to pick her dress up off the floor and shot a look over her shoulder. Her very bare shoulder. “You don’t seriously think I’m going to spend the night in a wet dress, do you?” </p><p>“But you’re naked!” He winced at how petulant he sounded, how very much like a child he still was in some ways.  </p><p>She rolled her eyes at him, but he was too focused on avoiding the very sight of her that he didn’t notice. “You’ll get naked too if you have any sense. No use in wearing wet clothes when you can let them dry.” </p><p>“You’re perverted.”</p><p>“I’m being practical.” She twisted the seawater out of her dress and then snapped the damp fabric at his back. “Now strip.” </p><hr/><p>He had to admit, shucking off his wet uniform and wrapping his body in a pelt had made him feel much better, though he was careful to cover the flesh between his legs when he did. </p><p>“You’re blushing,” she laughed. The sound set Peeta’s nerves on edge. The witch lounged near the fire pit on a nest of pelts she had constructed, wrapped in a glossy black fur that reflected threads of reddish-gold in the firelight. As she sat, the weak glow of the flames cast her features into warm relief, deepening the shadows under her cheekbones and darkening her lashes. Her salt tangled hair was as ebony black as a night sky with no stars and her skin was flawless, the color of water beaten clay beds. </p><p>“Come here,” she beckoned. </p><p>Instead, Peeta took a step back. “I do not take orders from witches. Not even naked ones.”</p><p>“It’s like you don’t want to survive the night,” she scoffed. “See this?” Her furs shifted as she reached out a hand, allowing a sliver of her stomach to catch the light. </p><p>Peeta tried not to stare. </p><p>She pointed a finger towards the dwindling fire. “We barely have any wood left, and when the fire dies while we’re sleeping, the only thing keeping us warm will be each other. Now get over here. I don’t plan on freezing to death when I have a big lump of muscle to keep me toasty.”</p><p>She made a good point, but still, Peeta hesitated. What if this was just a trick? A lure to get him close enough so she could pounce and gouge his eyes out. Or maybe she’d wait to finish him off when he fell asleep, his beating heart ripped from his chest while he cradled her against him. </p><p>In the end, he decided there was little chance of them surviving out here with no food and only three measly logs to keep a fire going. If he was going to die, he’d rather die warm. Besides, having his heart ripped from his chest would be over faster than starvation. </p><p>He moved towards the nest, and only after he had discarded his pelt and shimmied under hers did she speak. </p><p>“Closer, lieutenant,” she urged in a singsong voice. </p><p>He growled in response. </p><p>“Seriously, you’re acting like a blushing schoolboy.” </p><p>“I do not wish to lay with a witch.”</p><p>“This is not laying. This is surviving. If you had <em> any </em>experience pleasuring a woman you’d know the difference.” </p><p>Peeta’s body stiffened behind her. </p><p>“Oh, don’t tell me you’re embarrassed by it,” she chuckled meanly. “I thought the whole point of your pious Order was that you prided yourselves on being virgins. That and murderers.” </p><p>He ignored the word <em>murderers</em>. Only a witch would consider what the Order did murder. Everyone else considered it justice. Shearing the rot-riddled branches off the tree of existence. Magic was a disease, nobody should have that kind of power over another. It was unnatural and the world was better off absent of her kind, but he didn’t expect her to understand. </p><p>Monsters were always blind to their own evils. </p><p>So instead he addressed her derisive use of <em>virgin. </em> “We marry only when we’ve proven ourselves worthy to the Order.”</p><p>“Shouldn’t you only have to prove yourself to your wife?”</p><p>“A man does not have to prove himself to a woman. He simply has responsibility over her.”</p><p>“Is that what they teach you? How romantic.”</p><p>“Do not mock me, slum scum.” </p><p>“I think I like ‘witch’ better,” she quipped. She was infuriatingly quick-witted and Peeta seethed in silence, unsure that he could contend with such a sharp tongue. </p><p>“Whatever,” she said after the silence grew too long. “Just know that there’s nothing to worry about. Even if I wanted to, I would never defile my body with the likes of you.”</p><p>“That’s reassuring,” he muttered.</p><p>Despite her declaration, the witch drew nearer. The goose flesh of her back felt clammy against his chest, but soon their body heat melded and all he felt was radiating warmth prickling against the chill that had settled in his bones.</p><p>“Why did you save me?” he asked lowly, unable to quiet his racing thoughts. A part of him wanted to keep her talking so he wouldn’t have to close his eyes and picture Yasser’s bloated body lost at sea. </p><p>“Because you’re a human being,” she murmured, her voice saturated with drowsiness. “And because I knew if you survived I’d have someone to cuddle with at night.” Suddenly, and with a rustle of fur, she turned to face him. He scooted back. “<em>Relax, </em> lieutenant. This isn’t where I have my way with you. I just prefer to sleep with my back to the fire.”</p><p>“Are you always so lewd?” he asked, the disapproval in his voice as clear as a church bell ringing across a courtyard. </p><p>“If you knew me you’d know the answer to that is yes.”</p><p>“I do not wish to know you, witch.”</p><p>“Good. You don’t deserve to.” </p><p>With these terse versions of “good night” exchanged, they settled against one another, though Peeta was careful to avoid the brush of her breasts. She smelled of sea and sweat and the musk of fur, but something sweet lay underneath all that. Lavender milk. A chamomile bath. Medicinal salves. Jasmine blossoms suspended in freshwater. Long tumbles downhill. </p><p>The smells soothed him, until he remembered she’d been locked in the brig for a month and shouldn’t smell anything but horrible. A spell then. He was surprised. He thought Krellian magic involved blood rituals and sacrifices, not a spell in place of perfume, and he hadn't been aware that a Heartrender could cast spells other than those that ended in death. </p><p>Despite himself, his eyelids grew heavy. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was of slinging an arm around her waist.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Embers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which a truce is struck, crude jokes are made, and we learn more of Peeta’s childhood.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello all! </p><p>Before you get into chapter two, I’d like to thank everyone for such a warm response to this story. Every comment, kudo, like, and reblog The Heartrender has received has truly made me so happy. I know there are only four chapters, meaning this fic’s plot is pretty compact, but this story has been a summer passion project of mine and it’s so exciting to have it finally be read! </p><p>I’d like to give a big shout out to cryoverbooks (AKA nonbinarypeeta on Tumblr) who recently reached out to me and became my first official beta reader! Not only have they helped with editing, but I’ve also been DM’d some bomb ass dinner recipes. Much appreciated, friend💕</p><p>ALSO: I made a map! I've included it below. It helped me while writing and it may help you while reading. </p><p>Enjoy chapter two:)</p><p>'<em>Rjaka</em>' pronounced as: /<em>jah-kah</em>/<br/>'<em>Valkrӕlla</em>' pronounced as: /<em>vahl-kraw-lah</em>/<br/>'<em>Krą khiăh</em>' pronounced as: /<em>krah-ky-yah</em>/</p><p>Tumblr: junie-bugg</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em> What terrifies  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> me most </em>
</p><p>
  <em> is not being able </em>
</p><p>
  <em> to make sense </em>
</p><p>
  <em> of my vulnerability.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> My softness </em>
</p><p>
  <em> is my reward, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> but the world is cruel </em>
</p><p>
  <em> and constantly  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> makes me question it. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> -Christopher Poindexter </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>His commander had gone into the city for the night, leaving the crew on standby at the docks. Their ship, <em>The Bloody Rose</em>, needed tending and Peeta, an exhausted soldier running on three hours of sleep, needed a drink. He longed for a pint of proper ale. Not the bitter swill that the ship’s cook had distilled. </p><p>A chilled autumn wind whistled through the harbor, jostling netted shrouds and furled sails. The white and blue flag of Sjorkden snapped proudly above the crow’s nest where Thomas Jaclin quietly kept watch. There was a muted hush about the night, and at this point, with his chores done and nothing left for him to do except lose another round of cards or go off to bed, Peeta wished something would happen. </p><p>The hunter would get his wish.</p><p>He was nursing a cup of moonshine and chatting with his friend, Yasser Pjengo, when they heard the sounds of a scuffle. He and Yasser crossed the deck and looked down onto the dock that the ship was moored to. </p><p>There, struggling to drag someone up the gangplank, was Commander Snow. </p><p>“Commander on deck!” Peeta announced with all the authority he could muster, hoping his voice carried down to the lower levels to rouse the men from their games. Peeta had only recently been promoted to lieutenant, and he was going to prove to everyone that he deserved it. He felt a rush of pride swell within him when the crew emerged from their sleeping quarters, blinking both the mist of alcohol and the gleam of gambling from their eyes. </p><p>Commander Snow was of medium height with a thick beard and hard blue eyes. Though the hairs at his temples were gray, the way he carried himself was youthful. He spoke softly but commanded the kind of respect that caused listeners to lean in and catch every word. He now dragged a young woman with him onto the ship. Her red dress was torn and low cut, revealing the hollow between her breasts. A few strands of hair had been pulled from a tar-black braid to hang limply in front of her face. She had a blooming bruise on her jaw and a cut above her eye but otherwise seemed unharmed. </p><p>“Men! Say hello to our newest addition. From what I’ve seen so far, she’s sure to be a feisty one.”</p><p>Some of the crew had laughed and hooted as the girl twisted and spat in the commander’s face. In return he sent a heavy punch to her gut, causing her to whimper and double over in pain. </p><p>“I have to warn you all. This here is no ordinary witch. She’s a Heartrender.” </p><p>Peeta sucked in a breath and felt a chill pass through the assembled crew like a breeze passes through dead grass. </p><p>“By God, a Heartrender…” “One of her kind cursed my uncle. Turned his feet backward. No wench ever touched him willingly after that.” “I heard they could snap your neck with a flick of a finger.” “They don’t just stop hearts. They cut them out and <em> eat </em> them.” </p><p>Peeta had heard of Krellian Heartrenders. The rarest of the witches, Heartrenders could use their magic to manipulate bodies, peel the flesh from bone, collapse lungs, knot intestines, burst eyes in their sockets. He could only imagine what she would unleash upon them if her hands weren’t locked into those metal caps. </p><p>Snow cleared his throat to quiet the men. A hush fell over the deck once more. </p><p>“I see you’ve all heard the stories. If you let her out of those shackles, we’re all dead. I want at least one guard on her at all times.” His eyes shifted to Peeta in the front row. “Mellark, you take the first watch. Gerholt will take over at midnight, then Dawson, then Pjengo. This will be a rotating schedule. You’ll all get a chance with her before this voyage is over.” He twisted her arm, throwing her into the semicircle that Peeta and the crew had formed around them. She collapsed onto her stomach, a wilted heap of red dress and chains. “Now get her out of my sight.” </p><p>Peeta and a few others bent down to lift her up as the commander retired to his quarters, but she swung out her arms to ward them off. “Don’t touch me<em>, </em>” she spat in Krellian. The language sounded like the hissing of a snake. </p><p>“Get up and walk or I’ll drag you, witch. Your choice,” Peeta growled. His accent was thick, but he knew by the way her nostrils flared that she’d understood him.</p><p>She stayed crouched on the ground, her metal-covered hands in her lap. </p><p>Peeta’s anger erupted. “Fine,” he snapped. He wrenched her off the floor, threw her over his shoulder, and listened to her screams the entire way down to the brig. </p><hr/><p>During their slumber, the witch had commandeered his arm. </p><p>She lay sound asleep, his bicep propped under her cheek like a pillow. He only awoke when his hand had gone numb, the blood trapped, circling and pricking within his fingers like a swarm of wasps scrabbling to get out from under his skin. He watched the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the pulse that fluttered at her temple. She looked peaceful. Almost innocent. But he knew what she was really capable of. </p><p>Her head smacked the ground with a dull thud when he took his arm back. “<em>Ow!”  </em></p><p>The witch glared at him as he massaged the feeling back into his palm. She made it a point to rub the tender spot on her head so that he’d feel bad. </p><p>It didn’t work. </p><p>“Get up,” he rumbled. The witch turned over and curled in on herself. </p><p>“Five more minutes.” </p><p>He rose from the nest of furs, grabbing one and wrapping it around his waist to cover his nakedness, then moved to sweep the curtain out of the doorway. From the watery yellow sun high in the sky, he determined it was noon. </p><p>“Get up,” he growled again, injecting more anger into his tone. “We need to keep moving.” </p><p>“Why? We found shelter,” the furry lump on the ground said. </p><p>“If we want to find civilization we’re going to have to move. We need to get home as soon as possible.”</p><p>She turned on her side and rested her head in her hand. Her eyes gleamed like freshly polished silver in the light pouring past the curtain. “You’re letting me go home?”</p><p>“I meant <em>my </em>home,” he corrected, allowing the curtain to fall and shrouding them in dusk-like darkness once more.</p><p>There was a tense moment where both knew the time to act was upon them. Either kill the other or let them live. Both were risks. If Peeta killed the Heartrender, he’d be left to fend for himself. There’d be no magic to keep his blood warm.  But if he hesitated and let her live in the hopes that he could return her to Sjorkden and have her tried for witchcraft, there was a chance she’d kill him down the line. It would be so easy to reach out and crush her windpipe, deaden those bright eyes, neutralize the threat. She may have magic but she couldn’t weigh more than a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet. Peeta had height, strength, and military training on his side. He was arrogant enough to assume the odds were in his favor. </p><p>He thought she was thinking along the same lines because she eyed him warily. He was broad-shouldered and obscenely muscular, the product of a decade doing hard physical training at the academy. She couldn’t crush his heart if he lashed out and stalled her hands first. He may be heavy but he was surprisingly quick. After all, he hadn’t become a witcher for nothing. </p><p>She pursed her lips, considering something. “I think we’d both sleep better at night if we made a truce.”</p><p>He laughed and shook his head. “Your word is as valuable as a campfire is to a fish.”</p><p>She scowled slightly, a deep line forming between her furrowed brows. “This isn’t a promise that I’ll never harm you, just as I know you won’t agree to never harm me. You are a witch hunter after all. Bloodshed is your life. But let’s make a pact that until we make it out of this, we help each other.” She paused a beat and looked away as if ashamed. “After that, all bets are off.”</p><p>Peeta had nodded, but this truce didn’t mean he trusted her to stick to it. In fact, it made him even more suspicious of her. What kind of demon agreed to the drawing out of her own demise? He thought her gamble unwise and surmised she had some angle to play against him. He’d have to be especially careful from here on out. </p><p>They faced away from each other and put their clothes on quietly. She still wore the red dress, the one from <em>The Bloody Rose. </em> It looked looser on her now, but the sleeves were elegant, poufed at the shoulders, and fitted down to the wrists. The skirt was still full, even after she had spent so much time sitting in her cell and thrashing about in the sea. She would have looked ready for a party if the dress wasn’t so dirty and torn. </p><p>She caught him watching her and winked. “Like what you see?” She twirled and the skirt flared like the petals of a blooming rose, twisting and shimmering in the low light. </p><p>Peeta grunted as he did the last button on his dusky blue jacket. His undershirt was still damp against his skin. “It doesn’t fit you where it counts.”</p><p>They set out with empty hands, only having the clothes on their backs and the furs wrapped around their shoulders. The witch had taken a liking to the black one. She stroked it between her thumb and forefinger like a child would clutch to a blanket for comfort. </p><p>The briny scent of the sea permeated the air and even so high up as they were on the cliffside, Peeta felt the fine spray of the waves collect on his cheeks. The constant rushing of wind blew his hair back and whipped the fur about his shoulders. </p><p>They had been walking for hours when the witch asked, “What do you miss most about home?” </p><p>Peeta wished they could just be quiet. “A bed to myself.” </p><p>“Right,” the witch crowed wickedly. “I can feel how much you hate sleeping next to me. I felt it pressing into my hip last night.” </p><p>Peeta’s cheeks flushed scarlet and he avoided her eye. He had never been with a woman. He was a member of the Order: chaste until he earned his talisman and won the right to choose a wife. For his service to the Order he’d be allowed the hand of a nobleman’s daughter. Pretty, young Sjorkden maidens with hair of palest gold and soft, supple bodies. Daughters of the nation raised in the ways of womanly charm and domestic knowledge, basket weaving and child-rearing, dancing and singing and carving. </p><p>He had been dreaming of what his future wife would look like, what their first carnal encounters would entail, the holy honor in producing a child. It was a familiar dream, though not one he had often. As a father, a former witcher, and the husband to a woman with status, he would be granted an official seat on the council of <em> Rjaka</em>. His first solid foothold on the ladder of power. It was a lower rung, but it was a start. If only he could get back to his post and fulfill his service, then he would be given his freedom and permitted to marry. </p><p>Those dreams, full of glory, sex, and fatherhood, were the source of his arousal and frustrations, not the witch’s soft skin against his body. Her deep complexion and ebony hair were not of Sjorkden. Her lips were too large, her nose too wide, her body too slender and bony. She looked as if she had spent years scrounging about for meals, with ribs and hips that protruded like sticks in a canvas bag. He liked rounded women with pillowy bosoms, not scrawny little birds. </p><p>Or so he told himself. </p><p>“Why do you say such lewd things?” </p><p>“Because I can. And because I like when you turn red. It does wonders for that pale complexion of yours, <em> valkrӕlla</em>.” </p><p>
  <em> Valkrӕlla.  </em>
</p><p>Barbarian.</p><p>“You’re disgusting.”</p><p>“You like it,” she teased and continued walking, swaying her hips beneath the cloak of fur clasped at her throat and sweeping an obsidian curtain of hair over her shoulder. Even here, in the permafrost fields of the tundra, she still smelled of moss and jasmine, as if the misty swamps and forests of Krell dwelled within her pores. </p><p>Peeta scowled. He hated her. He hated her for what she was: an abomination, a demon sent to tear at the fabric of the natural world. He hated her for making him want to laugh. He hated her for being so brazen and sensuous and everything the women of his country were never allowed to be. But mostly he hated her because he realized he didn’t hate her. </p><p>Not even a little bit. </p><hr/><p>They walked in the hopes of finding a fishing village, or maybe a trading outpost, somewhere with an inn they could stay at. But as the day dragged on and the sun dipped precariously close to the sea, Peeta started losing hope. The witch stumbled behind him, making her way over embedded boulders and paling tufts of dead brush sticking out from the snowbanks. She squinted against the burning red sunset staining the landscape in bleeding color.</p><p>“Maybe we should head back,” she said, though they both knew this wasn’t an option. They were many hours from the whaling camp and turning around now meant they’d just be back at square one, with no food and no fire. </p><p>Peeta hadn’t been hungry last night, but his adrenaline had burned off, leaving his body weak and watery. He salivated at the thought of rosemary crusted mutton and boiled potatoes, buttered peas in ceramic crockery, honeyed mead, and angel cake with lemon filling. What he wouldn’t give to be back in the vast stone dining hall of the academy, laughing with Yasser through full mouths of meat and drink. After a feast, all the boys would tell stories in large circles or spar each other for prizes. Peeta had been one of the best hand-to-hand fighters among his peers and as such had accumulated a treasure trove of their makeshift awards. The wishbone of a chicken. A fork with a bent prong. A pearl someone had found in an oyster. When he had tired of winning, he would climb the stone steps to his dormitory and sleep dreamlessly on a goose down mattress. He’d wake to the rising sun and Yasser’s deep snores and know that he’d have a day of training ahead of him. Advanced lessons in combat, weapons handling and upkeep, survival skills, sailing, and instruction on foreign languages. He was a well oiled hunting machine, as he was raised to be by the masters. </p><p>But that was the past, a boyhood he would never return to. Peeta was a man now, and nobody was coming to instruct him. He was on his own. </p><p>Well, not entirely. He looked back at the witch. Her skin glowed deep bronze in the fading light and her dark hair whipped loosely about her angled face. She caught his eye and winked. </p><p><em>No, </em>he thought grimly. <em> I am not alone. </em> </p><hr/><p>Peeta had only been seasick once. It had been his first time on a ship, sailing from his birthplace to his new home. As the other boys “oohed” and “aahed” at the gray stone towers of the academy rising up from the mists, Peeta had vomited over the banister. </p><p>The others had made fun of him for it. Groups targeted him in the corridors, tripping him or pulling on his hair. Others mocked him, knocked him down hard in training, and then pretended to retch dramatically as he struggled to his feet, fighting to hold back tears. They called him ‘Greenie’, for the color of his skin on that first voyage.</p><p>It was better than ‘runt’ but he still resented himself for it, ashamed he had shown weakness. He trained hard after that, alone if he had to. Classes would be over, dinner would be served in the great hall, but the masters would find him in the training rooms practicing his punches on a dummy, or throwing knives, or moving through his stances with a blade. The hours of solitude paid off, and once the students were old enough to compete for rank in the sparring circles, no one came close to Peeta’s brutal technique or raw ferocity. And after he broke Geoff Tonson’s leg in two places, no one ever called him ‘Greenie’ again. </p><p>Peeta climbed down into the bowels of the ship, feeling the slight sway of the ocean lapping against the hull as he descended. The Heartrender had been on board for two weeks now and hadn’t earned her sealegs. He shriveled his nose as he came upon her cell. The acrid scent of vomit filled the compartment.</p><p>“Time to switch?” Wilhelm asked from his seat in the corner. </p><p>Peeta nodded. He hated guarding the Heartrender. She was in her own cell, isolated from the other witches he and the crew had captured. At least when you guarded the others you could eavesdrop on their conversations. It wasn’t much, but it was something. </p><p>Wilhelm Larone, a fresh-faced recruit on his first-ever witcher voyage, rose and stretched languidly. He hadn’t been able to grow a full beard, but his top lip held some promising peach fuzz. “I thought a Heartrender would be more entertaining,” he said, his dark eyes sparkling as a thought occurred to him. “Hey!” He rattled her bars. “Lift up your dress.” </p><p>The witch slumped in the corner, her skin waxy and coated in a film of sweat. Her hair was matted and oily. She blinked slowly at the wall and ignored Wilhelm’s racket. </p><p>He sighed like a disappointed child at the zoo. “I thought the commander said she was feisty.”</p><p>“That was before she had vomit on her dress,” Peeta said dryly. </p><p>The witch responded to Peeta’s voice, turning her head slightly to watch him between lanky strands of hair. A chill ran down Peeta’s spine at the intensity of her gaze. They hadn’t spoken since the first night when he had thrown her over his shoulder and dragged her into this very cell, but she remembered him. Peeta tore his eyes away. </p><p>Wilhelm had placed his foot on the lowest step, moving to leave when she croaked, “Water.” </p><p>“When was the last time she was fed?” Peeta asked. </p><p>Wilhelm turned, a confused look on his face. “I don’t know. Ask the commander.” </p><p>“At least get her a cup of water before you go to bed. We want to keep her alive for the trial.” </p><p>Wilhelm smiled wickedly. “I have a better idea.” He jumped off the stairs and sauntered over to the Heartrender’s cell once more. “You thirsty, witch? Here, drink up.” </p><p>Peeta watched in horror as Wilhelm unbuttoned his pants and began pissing through her cell bars. Wilhelm’s eyes, which Peeta thought were too far apart in his head, darted up to the older man’s face. “You owe me two gold pieces if I can get it in her mouth.” </p><p>The witch made a strangled sound of disgust and tried to move away, but she was already in the corner. There was nowhere to go and her dress was soon soaked a deeper red. </p><p>“That’s enough,” Peeta said, but Wilhelm’s stream only grew stronger. “I said that’s enough!” he barked and shoved Wilhelm away. </p><p>In his surprise, Wilhelm sprayed the wall. “Damnit, Mellark. It’s a joke. Dawson was right. You are no fun.” He stuffed himself back into his pants and then turned to the witch. He winked. “Maybe next time you can drink straight from the source. If you promise not to bite of course.” He then fixed his uniform and lumbered up the stairs. Peeta watched him and his half-mustache go. </p><p>“<em>Krą khiăh,</em>” she whispered after the creaking of Wilhelm’s steps faded. </p><p>
  <em> Thank you. </em>
</p><p>“I didn’t do it for you,” Peeta said. “It was unsanitary, and your kind deserves hellfire, not some quiet death on a ship.”</p><p>Peeta spent the remainder of the night sitting on the chair in the corner, breathing in the scents of piss and vomit and misery. Wilhelm's treatment shouldn't have bothered him. They were bringing her to Sjorkden to burn, for God's sake. But the next time he reported for guard duty, he brought her a cup of water and a half-eaten bread roll.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Flickers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which I inadvertently utilized the “only one bed" trope.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter touches more on Katniss' backstory.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She buried </em>
</p><p>
  <em> her ears </em>
</p><p>
  <em> into the calm of his heartbeat, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> and in a matter of seconds: </em>
</p><p>
  <em> fell terribly in love </em>
</p><p>
  <em> with the way </em>
</p><p>
  <em> her loneliness fell </em>
</p><p>
  <em> softly and suddenly, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> asleep, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> in his chest.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> -Christopher Poindexter </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Night had fallen, and with it, the temperature. Peeta allowed the witch to hold his arm so she could keep his blood warm. When she retracted her hand every once in a while to readjust the pelt around her shoulders, his jaw clenched. He shouldn’t miss her touch. </p><p>“Do you have any idea where we are?” she asked. </p><p>“Near the northern border of the Permafrost. Though I don’t know how far from the capital we were before the ship sank.” </p><p>“We’re walking to Fjordhingă then?” </p><p>“Yes,” he replied. Fjordhingă was the trading capital of the north. It would have been the last stopping point of <em> The Bloody Rose’s </em>voyage before they headed west to Sjorkden. If he and the witch could make it there by foot, perhaps Peeta could talk their way onto a ship. But how would he get the witch on board? What if she ran away? The thought had been nagging him like a fly on his brow.</p><p>Even with the witch there to keep his blood pumping, he felt his limbs freezing up as the temperature continued dropping. He desperately scanned the darkening horizon, hoping to find an outcropping of rocks they could huddle beneath, or maybe another whaling camp. Instead, he spotted a gabled roof. </p><p>“Oh, thank God,” he breathed and started tugging the witch along. </p><p>“Lieutenant…” she said apprehensively. </p><p>It wasn’t just some stray shack. It was a fishing village, with squat houses and a trading outpost, all perched on the cliffside and overlooking the ocean. One circular dirt road cleared of rock and vegetation lay at its center and the clusters of small buildings had been constructed around it. The houses had wavy glass panes in the windows and soot-blackened chimneys, though no light shone onto the street and no smoke rose into the sky. An abandoned village then. Even better. Peeta hastened his pace. </p><p>“Lieutenant, stop!” the witch yelled, tugging him back behind the village’s crumbling border wall. “Look at the flagpole!”</p><p>He raised his eyes to where she was pointing and his heart dipped when he spotted an ominous black flag waving high above the rooftops. </p><p>Black was for plague. No wonder the place seemed abandoned. Everyone had died. </p><p>He assumed they were going to move on, but the witch set her shoulders back. Her features took on a quiet focus.“We need to be careful. We can’t just barge in. There may be corpses.” She dropped his arm and moved around him to walk to the door of the closest house. The witch then lay a palm to its wind-weathered surface.</p><p>He sucked in a breath. </p><p>She was too close. </p><p>“Don’t!” he barked and pulled her away. </p><p>She whipped her head around, a scowl pulling her brows together. “You’d rather we die of plague than allow me to use my god-given powers?” </p><p>“Don’t drag God into this.”</p><p>“Oh don’t worry. I doubt we have the same ones,” she retorted. “Now get out of my way.” </p><p>He didn’t want her touching that door, but he knew what she was doing. He’d read about the practice of purification in class, but he hadn’t imagined it would smell so good. </p><p>Pure white light emanated from within the building, flooding out in bright streams from the windows, the minuscule cracks in the stone walls, the deep hollow of the chimney. Long shadows crept along the craggy ground, shifting in oblong patterns as the light in the house moved. The witch’s hair and clothing snapped in some enchanted breeze, pulling ebony locks and fur upwards in a cascading arc until the light faded and gravity pulled her hair back down in a glossy curtain. The air tingled with the sharp scent of mint. </p><p>“I thought you could only manipulate bodies,” Peeta got out, practically gaping. </p><p>“I can do a great many things you wouldn’t understand, lieutenant.” </p><p>“Don’t call me that,” he muttered as he took a tentative step towards her. Lieutenant was his title from the Order. It felt wrong to hear her speak it here. </p><p>“Would you rather I call you by your name?” she asked. Peeta didn’t respond. “Didn’t think so.” She unlatched the rusted iron handle and the door swung in on itself. “Welcome home, lieutenant.” </p><hr/><p>By noon the next day, she had purified the entire village. </p><p>It was a spell, an easy one, that burned away rot and disease. Each time she pressed a hand to a doorway, the windows filled with that bright celestial light, her hair rose above her head as a flame rises above a candlewick, and she burned away any trace of plague inside. Scraps of cloth that had been coughed into, drops of dried blood on the floor, corpses that had been left behind. Each house was spotless when she was done. </p><p>They had slept in the house farthest from the cliffside on the eastern side of the village. It was small, with only a kitchen and a bedroom. There was a sizable stone hearth in the kitchen, plenty of split logs in a wicker basket by the back door, even some strips of salted caribou meat in the pantry. First, they had scarfed down the meat, and only after, with the salted flesh chewed and swallowed, did they think of their thirst. Peeta made a fire while the witch lugged a burnished pot outside to gather snow. They drank the warm melted water and then collapsed into bed with their clothes still on. </p><p>It was a real bed with a canopied frame, pillows, and soft, quilted blankets. Peeta was too tired to object when the witch curled in against his chest, and once more he spent the night with his nose buried deep in her hair. </p><p>As exhausted as he was, Peeta was a soldier. He woke early, as he always did, and found that he couldn’t fall back asleep. The pale morning light of dawn crept through the curtains as blood soaks through a bandage. Anyone else would have rolled over and tried to catch a few more hours of shut-eye, but Peeta couldn’t. The witch’s heat against his chest was too much, like a beating, throbbing wound that refused to heal. He untangled his arm from beneath her and then hurried to the door, grabbing a spear in the pretense of hunting. </p><p>Winter burned his nostrils as he took in deep lungfuls of air. He was a boy raised in the fjords of southern Sjorkden and a man of the northern academy. He’d thought he’d seen the bitterest winters the world had to offer when ice would form between the stones of his tower dormitory and he and Yasser would have to sleep on the floor by the black iron furnace for warmth. They would go to breakfast with blue nail beds and teeth that chattered so violently sometimes it was hard to chew. But he realized those nights were nothing compared to this, a winter’s chill so sharp that it cut out a spot for you into the very landscape, made you feel as if your skin was crafted of snow, your bones pressed from ice. Made you so numb you felt half dead. </p><p>He secured the fur around his shoulders and tried to replace thoughts of piercing silver eyes with thoughts of breakfast. But the winds of the north were unforgiving, and the frigid bite of the air only reminded Peeta of how warm he had been with the witch. By the time he had finished hunting, having speared only one measly hare, his limbs were frozen, joints locked as if welded, lips numb under his teeth as he tried to bite the life back into them. </p><p>He found himself anticipating coming back to the village, wanting what he so desperately fled only hours before; to tangle in bed with the witch once more, a merry fire crackling in the hearth, the warm press of her body cradled against his own, his nose buried in the hollow beneath her ear, soaking up the heady scents of jasmine and fresh rain and sunlight until he was drunk on her. His thoughts were peaceful until he remembered the sin of what he had been considering. </p><p>Laying with the witch was practical. The use of her magic against the cold was necessary. There was nothing charming or romantic about having to rely on an enemy for survival. He should despise his needing her. She wasn’t human. She was dangerous. </p><p>It was foolish to forget that.</p><hr/><p>Yasser collapsed into the seat across from Peeta, his dinner tray laden with a bowl of brown grits, boiled sausages, some mushy looking turnips, and a small cup of water. </p><p>“Did you hear what happened to Larone?” he asked, his urgent tone cutting under the loud din of the dining compartment. </p><p>“No,” Peeta replied, unsure if he wanted news of how Wilhelm was handling his first witcher voyage. The antics of newbies were fun to hear about at the start, but when tales of seasickness and fatigue reached the ears of experienced witchers, especially witchers on the cusp of earning their freedom, the stories were more annoying than entertaining. </p><p>Yasser greedily stuffed a spoonful of grits into his mouth and swallowed before continuing. “Well, I’m telling you anyway. If I have to know, you have to know.” </p><p>“Can I finish eating first?”</p><p>“No. Now eat your sausages, growing boy!” Yasser mimicked the garbled, high-pitched accent of one of the servants from the academy, Mrs. Jengon, who had doled out food in the great hall. Each and every student was a “growing boy” in her eyes. Even the ones who had finished their battle with puberty. </p><p>Peeta frowned and took a tentative bite of sausage. </p><p>“Alright, I’m going to try and say this with as much grace as possible,” Yasser said solemnly but then burst into peals of laughter, slamming a fist against the table so forcefully the plates rattled. “Oh, who am I kidding? I don’t think I can. Larone gave the Heartrender a little <em> too much to chew </em> if you know what I’m saying.” </p><p>Peeta stilled. “He didn’t.”</p><p>Yasser cocked a thick eyebrow, his mouth crinkling around the corners. With his flaming red hair and bright green eyes gleaming under the oil lamps he looked like some kind of buff leprechaun. “He <em>did</em>. And now half his pisser is being packed in ice.” </p><p>Peeta’s stomach rolled, his body instinctually clenching in phantom pain as he imagined it. He set down his fork with the sausage impaled on the end and pushed the plate away. </p><p>“God…”</p><p>“But don’t tell anyone I told you,” Yasser added. “The commander wants to keep it under wraps. Doesn’t shine very well on him, does it? If his recruits are dumb enough to stick their cocks between witch jaws?”</p><p>Peeta didn’t tell a soul but the news still spread through the ranks like a wildfire during drought season. Yasser updated him at breakfast. Larone was in the infirmary being tended to by Dutch, the crew’s one doctor, and wouldn’t be out of recovery until the ship reached Sjorkden. Peeta felt bad for the boy, but it was his own foolishness that had gotten him into trouble, and now he’d never bed a wife or sire heirs. Larone’s power crawl was over before it had even really started. </p><p>Peeta relieved Hans Gerholt from guarding duty that night, disgusted when he saw no one had bothered to clean the Heartrender up. Larone’s blood had splattered her face, dried, and then cracked. She looked absolutely monstrous with a red dipped chin. </p><p>“You here for a good time too?” she said, picking up on Peeta’s discomfort. He didn’t respond, just sat down stiffly in the guard’s chair and listened to the creaking of the boat, the squeaking of rats in the walls, the soft clinking of the witch’s chains when she shifted across the cell floor. “Your little friend showed me his even littler friend. I barely bit him and it was half off.”</p><p>“Stop talking,” Peeta growled, angry at himself that he had risen to her bait. He knew she just wanted to get a rise out of him. The weeping girl was gone, replaced with one who had accepted she had nothing to lose. </p><p>“Now your commander…” she drawled, eyes flashing in the partial darkness. “His would have taken more gnawing.” </p><p>Peeta didn’t much care for the commander. He was old and cruel, but it was the principal of honor and his loyalties to the Order that made him rise so sharply from his chair that it tipped over. He lunged at her through the bars, pulling her up against the cold metal by her collar. “Hold your tongue, witch, or I’ll cut it out.”</p><p>She <em>tsked </em>quietly, hanging limply in his grip. “Did your commander ever tell you where he found me?” She saw the confusion in his eyes and clung to it. “Of course he didn’t. No pious soldier of Sjorkden would ever reveal he had been cavorting in a pleasure house.”</p><p>“You’re a whore,” Peeta whispered, almost disbelievingly, the pieces clicking into place. He released her and she fell to the ground in a weakened heap. </p><p>On the surface, she looked the same. Wrinkled red dress, oily black hair, sunken cheeks. But now there was something alight inside of her. Heat smoldered like molten silver in her eyes. “You and your kind have called me many things, lieutenant. Witch. Slum scum. Unholy daughter of Krell. But I’m afraid ‘whore’ is where I draw the line. I did not choose that life, it was thrust upon me, and here I am now. <em> Free of it.</em>”</p><p>Peeta looked down at her. He thought the commander had put her in those iron hand caps to keep her from unleashing her powers. She could not kill if she could not curl her fingers. But now he suspected they had come from her time in Ellsworth. How long had she been wearing them? From the rust on the padlocks, he suspected a long time. “How ironic that you speak of freedom while you lounge in chains.”</p><p>“Freedom is a fickle thing, lieutenant. I may be stuck here in this cage but I suspect you carry one wherever you go.” </p><p>Peeta’s nostrils flared. That familiar rush of rage he experienced during combat surged through his limbs, but with nowhere to go, his head soon swam with it. “Do not pretend to know me. You’re repulsive. A perversion against nature.” </p><p>“I <em> am </em>nature. You are just too brainwashed to see it.”</p><p>“Nature does not defile the earth. Or slaughter the innocent by the thousands.” </p><p>“My people have committed no such crimes. We were healers before you forced our hands to bloodshed. I suggest you try looking upon yourselves before you go blindly doling out sentences.”  </p><p>Peeta was at a loss for words. The nerve of this girl, injuring Larone and then preaching about who the real enemy was. Coaxing out his anger and frustration when he was normally so good at hiding it. Ever since he ran away from home, he had learned the hard way that emotion in the face of an enemy was weakness. He could not afford to let her under his skin no matter how hard she clawed away at him. He was ashamed to admit it, but he had found his thoughts drifting to her on nights when he wasn’t on guard duty. That stopped now. </p><p>“Rot in hell,” he spat as he righted his chair.</p><p>“You will,” she growled.</p><hr/><p>The witch burned the red dress in the kitchen fireplace. The fabric steamed and curled into blackened strips, sending dark plumes of smoke up the chimney like released ghouls. Peeta didn’t have to ask her why she did it. He knew she burned the dress to try and burn away the memories of her capture, and perhaps the memories that came before. If he thought about it, the dress must have been from her time in Ellsworth. He could only imagine how a girl of her beauty would fare in the clutches of a pleasure house, the horrors unleashed upon her when the rights to her body were not her own. He wondered how she could even bear touching him. </p><p>A man. </p><p>A stranger. </p><p>If burning the dress had worked, he couldn’t tell. She came to bed in a fur-lined nightgown and quietly rested her cheek on his breastbone. Shame laced itself through his stomach lining when he didn’t push her away. </p><p>“I’ve never heard a heart song so gentle,” she murmured admiringly. She sounded surprised. </p><p>Peeta’s chest ached. He was suddenly self-conscious of how fast he was breathing and in his fight to slow down, hadn’t asked her what she meant. </p><p>They raided each house one by one. The people of the village were either dead or had moved on when the plague hit. They left behind dressers full of clothing, shoes, pots and pans, utensils, pottery, carving knives, firewood, axes, the occasional sword, hunting supplies, wax candles, furniture, toys, paintings, family heirlooms. All the trappings of domesticity. </p><p>The pair took a pan here and a pair of shoes there. Peeta had found two large packs with which to stuff items in. His pack would contain a small assortment of kitchenware, food, some firewood, and the water sacks. She would carry extra clothing and furs. They planned on spending a couple of nights in the village before restarting their journey north to Fjordhingă. </p><p>In the days they spent stocking up on provisions, the witch took over hunting duty. She didn’t hunt with spear or snare as Peeta had learned. She used her powers to crush windpipes and burst hearts. Wild dogs stopped dead in their tracks, keening over like sacks of potatoes. Birds plummeted from the sky, cold before they hit the ground. He enjoyed the bounty, feasting on a new roast every night and salting the leftovers, but with every meal, he grew warier. He had heard the stories of course, of the deathly potential that Heartrenders possessed, but seeing her in action was completely different from hearing some old tale around a campfire. Just how powerful was she? And when she determined he was no longer useful as a means of body heat or when their little truce no longer suited her, how easy would it be to kill him? A curl of her fingers or a flick of her wrist and he’d be dead. </p><p>Maybe he’d made a mistake by letting her live. </p><p>Every night when he watched her sleep, the voices of the masters pressed into his head, willing his fingers to close around her throat, to witness the light drain from her bulging, terror-filled eyes and have her know that <em>he </em>had bested <em>her</em>. </p><p>Him. The seed of a pathetic, weak-willed baker. Wielder of no arcane power and with no legacy to help carve the way. Just him and his own two hands against the world. As it had always been. </p><p>But no matter what his common sense was telling him, of how dangerous he knew her kind to be, he couldn’t do it. He would reach for her neck and then freeze, afraid to go any further. If she didn’t stir he’d stay his hand, running feather-light fingers across her pulse point, quietly admiring the way her angled features softened in sleep. But if her eyelids fluttered or her breathing changed he would retreat as if she had burned him. </p><p>“Where were you sired?” Peeta asked one night as they ate a bird the witch had caught. The bones were small and Peeta had to be careful not to break them with his teeth. He gnawed on a piece of cartilage as he waited for her reply. </p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>“I mean-” Krellian was not Peeta’s first language. He had picked it up between his boyhood and his blood christening into the Order, but he had limited knowledge of words. He learned Krellian and Narubi and Hannako from old, leather-bound textbooks and even older professors. For years he had studied all the archaic tongues they hoped he would someday snuff out, but he did not know slang or turn of phrase, and his accent was rounded in his mouth compared to the crisp consonants of a native Krellian speaker. </p><p>She spoke as if she were tiptoeing through a flower field. </p><p>He spoke as if he were crashing through it. </p><p>“Where did you… grow?”</p><p>“Grow up?”</p><p><em> Grow up. </em> Peeta slotted the term into his memory for future use. “Yes. Where in Krell did you grow up?”</p><p>The witch narrowed her eyes, those silvery irises glowing like moonlight from behind a cloud’s ragged border. “Why? Are you planning your next raid?”</p><p>“No, I-” He ducked his head, his cheeks burning furiously. “I’m just curious.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>“I won’t tell you, lieutenant,” she snarled. She threw down her uneaten bird’s wing, splattering congealed blood everywhere. “Besides, you don’t deserve to know.” Her anger was eager, ready to be unleashed upon him even in quiet, semi-companionable moments such as mealtime. She confused him. Why was she flirty and seductive when they lay in bed together but bitter and closed off when he tried having a casual conversation?</p><p>Although to be fair, he hadn’t been very open with her either. And not particularly kind.</p><p>“It was just a question.”</p><p>“A dangerous one. Go ahead and ask another. See if I’ll talk.” Her eyes glittered as if they were playing a game she knew she would win. </p><p>Just another thing he didn’t like about the witch. How ashamed he felt when talking to her. Minor slip-ups, cracks in his armor of indifference. She had a talent for coaxing them out of him as if she were pulling secrets from a drunk man.</p><p>But he was in too deep now. Might as well try to get something out of her. </p><p>He lowered his gaze to the fire and asked, “Then what’s your favorite color?” </p><p>The witch blinked. She hadn’t been expecting such a mundane inquiry. She was silent for a moment, probably contemplating if giving away this piece of information would in any way compromise her. She decided a favorite color was harmless. </p><p>“Green.” </p><p>He pictured it. The verdant green of a forest. Lush and deep and full of secrets. </p><p>Just like her. </p><p>“Mine is orange,” he offered. “Soft. Like a sunset.”</p><p>She cocked a dark brow. “Not red for the blood of your enemies?”</p><p>Peeta raised the drumstick back up to his mouth, suppressing a smile. “That comes in a close second.” </p><p>She had laughed then, a sound so joyful and clear that Peeta’s heart clenched and he stopped chewing just to hear her better. </p><hr/><p>She awoke screaming one night, flailing about under the sheets and shoving him away as if he were stabbing her. He had been awake when it started, unable to quiet a storm of racing thoughts. If he hadn’t been so alert, perhaps he wouldn’t have sprung to her aid so quickly. </p><p>“What is it?” he demanded, suspecting there was something biting her under the covers. He threw the blankets back, but there was nothing. “Huh?” he asked when he couldn’t make out her quaking mumbles. </p><p>“Just a dream, it was just a dream,” she whispered to herself, and then she dissolved into tears. Her face glistened wetly in the moonlight and she shrank away when he reached to pull the covers back over her. </p><p>The next night, he took some furs and slept by the fire in the kitchen, afraid she wouldn’t want him in bed with her. But when he was about to doze off, she padded through the doorway. </p><p>“What are you doing?” she demanded.</p><p>“Sleeping.”</p><p>“On the floor?”</p><p>“But… you… last night… ” he stammered. </p><p>Her face hardened as she crossed her arms self-consciously. “I’m sorry you had to see that, but I’d feel better if you stayed in the room with me.” </p><p>“You <em>kicked </em>me,” he argued.</p><p>“Not on <em>purpose,</em>” she hissed. </p><p>The two glared at each other, and then the tension broke. The witch softened, her shoulders sagging like a loose bowstring. “Please.”</p><p>He should have told her no. Instead, he said, “Alright.”</p><hr/><p>She dreamed of clients. Harsh hands and sour breath. Shackles looped around a bed frame. </p><p>He wasn’t allowed to touch her after those dreams. Not for a long while at least, and when they would eventually come together again, he let her choose when to climb back into his arms. “What makes me different?” he asked quietly one night as she clutched his shirt, her tears drying over his heart.</p><p>She raised her head to meet his eyes. “Can you feel your own heartbeat?” </p><p>He could if he focused. If he held his breath and silenced his thoughts. He nodded. </p><p>She sounded sad, as if she were quoting somebody when she said, “If you listen close enough, you can hear that all heartbeats are different.”</p><p>It sounded like Krellian nonsense. Heartbeats sounded like heartbeats, but it was out before he thought to stop himself. “What is mine like?”</p><p>She laid her head back down and inhaled slowly through her nose, listening. “It’s gentle and steady. Like the lapping of the ocean. Ever present and soothing. It's hard to explain but I’ve never heard one quite like it.” She inhaled again, steeling herself. “It makes me feel safe. Which is ironic because it belongs to you.” </p><p>He smiled but she couldn’t see it. Then he asked, “And what does yours sound like?” </p><p>There was a long pause and then she said, “You can listen if you want.” She sat up in bed, pulling him along with her, and with gentle hands twined through his hair, tipped his ear to her breast. </p><p>It was hard to concentrate. The heels of her hand on his cheeks and her fingers laced across his scalp made him feel as if she were touching him everywhere. But then he forced himself to lean into her chest, the shell of his ear pressing against her sternum, searching for the sounds of her very being. </p><p>At first, he heard nothing, just felt the rise and fall of her breaths, but then, as if cotton had been removed from his ears, he heard the heavy beat of life. The first thud was loud like a cannon shot, but the second was quiet, like the dull closing of a door. Her heart sounded like it was limping on stilts. Hobbling along unevenly. Long step, short step. Over and over. Cautious. Afraid. So unlike the girl he’d come to know. But it was all there, hidden away deep inside of her. </p><p>“See?” she whispered. “We’re different.” </p><p>But they weren’t. Not really.</p><p>When she fell asleep and Peeta remained awake, he tried reaching within himself to feel his own heart again. It was like the constant beating of waves as she said, but he didn’t find it soothing. Every beat felt achingly blunt as if his heart was slowly ripping itself apart to make more room. </p><p>It terrified him.</p><hr/><p>On the morning of their departure, he rose, dressed in a black tunic and pants, clasped a heavy fur cloak around his shoulders, and then sheathed a sword at his hip. He stepped outside to swing it around, getting the feel for its weight. </p><p>The sword was heavy, made of polished steel that glinted in the cloudy morning light. Compared to the swords he had grown up with, the blade was plain. There were no holy etchings in its metal face, no onyx embedded into the hilt, and no divine blessings had been uttered over it, but he felt a fierce rush of strength all the same. Peeta was used to heavy swords and the leather-wrapped pommel felt right in his hands, as if he’d been missing a part of himself without a weapon. </p><p>“Is that really necessary?” the witch asked, her voice carrying from inside the house and over the frostbitten yard. When he laid eyes on her, a hot jolt flooded his body as if he’d just caught himself from falling off a roof. </p><p>She leaned against the doorframe, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, but he could tell from the way she warily focused on the blade that she was on high alert. A caribou hide nightdress brushed the tops of her dusky knees and her hair was loose and mussed on one side. The side she had pressed against his body in the night, Peeta realized. </p><p>“What else would you have me use?” Peeta asked darkly, unsure why the witch got to use her powers whenever she wanted, but when it came to Peeta’s talents they were disapproved of. </p><p>“You have a Heartrender with you,” she said arrogantly, pointing at herself. “You’re just going to be lugging around a sword for show and no offense but I’d rather you carry extra food.” </p><p>“It’s not for show. This sword is to protect myself against <em>you, </em>” he said angrily, pointing the blade in her direction. </p><p>She took a hurried step back as if she expected him to advance. There was a heavy, quiet moment as Peeta watched her from behind the sword’s edge. </p><p>And then she twisted her wrist. </p><p>Peeta’s heart rate skyrocketed. </p><p>Her voice was low, dangerous as she said, “I don’t know what your superiors told you, but a sword is no match for a Heartrender.” She began squeezing her fingers together and Peeta’s heart stuttered, his chest clenching painfully as if he were having a heart attack. Stabbing heat pulsing through every vein in his body as if his blood had turned to molten lava. He fell to his knees, dropping the sword into the hard-packed dirt with a hollow clang. </p><p>“Stop,” he begged, clutching at his chest. His breaths came in ragged pants. He was falling apart under the pressure. “Please.” </p><p>She tensed her hand, unsure whether or not to let up. Her eyes were frightened, but there was resolve there too, as if she had imagined this situation before and had already decided the outcome. This was her chance. She had a pack full of food and supplies. She had her enemy in her clutches. She was going to do it. He was going to die, right here, in an abandoned village where no one would think to come looking for him. Where no one would know his name. All who wandered would stay away from the black flag, and he’d be the feast for wild animals and the decay of time. </p><p>He should have killed her when he had the chance but he had been weak and now his chances were spent. </p><p>She squeezed tighter, her fingertips almost touching her palm. And then all of a sudden, her face crumpled. With a strangled gasp of breath, she released him. He fell to the ground in a quivering heap as his heart rate plummeted and then righted itself. </p><p>“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, trying to stem the flow of tears with her hands. She disappeared back inside the house and Peeta was left to stare shamefully at his own tears pooling in the dirt. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Flames</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which I finally post the smut.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Well, here it is. Chapter four of four. (Although if this statement makes you sad be sure to check out the end notes.)</p><p>This is the first multi-chapter fic I've ever finished and I'm very proud of it:)</p><p>If you feel up for it, let me know what you think of the story. I really do love hearing from you guys. </p><p>Happy reading!💕</p><p>'<em>Trӕvani ᶌala ką</em>' pronounced as: /<em>tray-vani-valah-kah</em>/</p><p>'<em>Frukkala</em>' pronounced as: /<em>froo-kah-lah</em>/</p><p>'<em>Siyana</em>' pronounced as: /<em>see-ah-nah</em>/</p><p>'<em>Valjakka</em>' pronounced as: /<em>vahl-jah-kah</em>/</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em> You are not the woman I wished for. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Where did you come from, human? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You are not the bones or the </em>
</p><p>
  <em> laughter or the strangeness </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I ordered. You are not crafted of </em>
</p><p>
  <em> the madness I was raised to seek. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You are tender and sweet and as </em>
</p><p>
  <em> soft and lovely as a bouquet of clouds, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> you are more soul than body, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> more grace than bones, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> more heart than lust. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But, you are not what I wanted. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Which analogy or metaphor </em>
</p><p>
  <em> or word should I give you </em>
</p><p>
  <em> with tears in my eyes to tell you </em>
</p><p>
  <em> something that is as simple as the </em>
</p><p>
  <em> moon is bright; </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You are not what I wanted. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You, are better. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> -Christopher Poindexter </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p>He was shivering on the front stoop when she brought him a cup of nettle tea. The smell was similar to that of the tea he’d had back home, though in his mother’s house they made sure to only steep birch bark and angelica root. Giving a guest nettle tea was a sign of poverty and god forbid the Mellarks confirm what the entire town already knew to be true. He sloshed the steaming gray-green liquid around, eyeing it warily. The ceramic felt rough against his palm. The heat was welcome after so long outside, but instead of accepting her peace offering, he set it down on the stone step.</p><p>“It’s not poisoned,” she said sharply. “I wouldn’t do that.”</p><p>He scratched at his beard, a bitter laugh bubbled out of his throat. The perfect picture of forced nonchalance. “But you’d burst my heart. So much for that truce.” He had tried to avoid looking at her but couldn’t help but glance up when she didn’t respond. </p><p>Her eyes were rimmed with red and she had changed out of her nightgown. She now wore a simple white and blue frock. It was the kind that milkmaids wore in the Sjorkden countrysides during the summertime, though this one lacked the swirling embroidery and was made of a warmer, thicker cloth. The sleeves shone white against her deep skin and her hair floated loosely about her face, the inky color of obsidian pulled from the depths of the very earth. She crossed her arms over her chest protectively. </p><p>“You have no idea…” she started but then trailed off. </p><p>“No idea of what?” he pressed.</p><p>“You have no idea how much you scare me.” She wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand and then turned away from him, looking out into the mountainous distance. He was struck with how young she looked in that moment. Just a girl really. Frightened and cold and half a world away from home. </p><p>“At first I was scared of…” Her eyes darted back to his. “Well, look at you. You’re massive. But also the fact that you despise me without even knowing me. Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”</p><p>Peeta didn’t respond. From infancy, he had been taught to fear her kind. Witches were monsters. Demons. Barely even human. First instilled in him by his mother and after he ran away from home, the masters. Those fears were settled as deep as his very bone marrow and wouldn’t be so easily uprooted. But as he watched the breeze play with her hair and the subtle movement of her skirts as she shifted from foot to foot, the hateful voices of his kin quieted ever so slightly. </p><p>“Say something,” she said weakly. </p><p>“You could have killed me…but you stopped yourself… ” He was trying to make sense of it all, and once again, the only conclusion he came to was that he owed her. He had owed her the moment she pulled him from the sea and perhaps he would never stop. She was always sparing his life. What had he done in return?</p><p>She stared down at her feet and Peeta realized with a start that he was admiring the slender curve of her neck, the same soft stretch of skin he made a habit of caressing at night when she wasn’t aware of him. This wasn’t right. He bit the inside of his cheek, summoning his anger back up. It wasn’t as readily equipped as it had once been. </p><p>“If you had drawn a sword on me a few days ago, I think I would have killed you. But now I… I don’t want you to…” She swallowed, the words were as thick as a paste in her mouth. “I don’t want to be alone.”</p><p>Her confession made him uncomfortable. It was like she had rolled over and was showing him her soft underbelly. It wasn’t like her. </p><p>“Why are you telling me this?”</p><p>“Because I want us to trust each other.”</p><p>“That might prove to be a mistake,” he pointed out. “We haven’t had the best track record.”</p><p>“I know,” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards. “But I’m tired of being afraid.”</p><p>She had spared him, more than once, even when it could prove dangerous for her to do so. She had kept his heart beating and his blood warm even when it would have been easy to let him freeze to death. She said she was tired, Peeta realized that he was too, and without him even meaning for it, the iron chains of his preconceptions shifted. </p><p>“No matter what you paint me to be, I’m no monster,” she said as she bent down to pick up the tea. Her hair brushed the stone step. </p><p>“Then what are you?” Peeta asked. </p><p>“A survivor. Just like you.” At that moment, her face was unreadable, stone-like, as if she carried a whole uncharted world inside herself that Peeta would never touch. But there, if you looked closely as she placed a gentle hand to his shoulder and pressed the tea back into his palm, there was a chink in the armor. Like when she had allowed him to listen to her heartbeat, something so intimate and out of place between the bickering and long stretches of wary silence between them. </p><p>It was a softening of sorts, a slivered glimpse through branches and into the clearing beyond, as if all other encounters he had witnessed before were of shifting leaves, ripples in a lake, half versions of a girl, and this was the first time Peeta had the courage to look closely and really <em>see </em>her. </p><p>He wondered what she saw in him. </p><p>There was a tenderness in her eyes, and in response to the pressure of her hand, a blooming warmth opened in Peeta’s chest the same way a door opens on rusted, unused hinges. Slowly and with great difficulty, as if out of practice, but open all the same. </p><p>That was until her eyes narrowed, her lips twisted unpleasantly, and she said: “Don’t ever point your sword at me again, or I swear to the Mother I’ll make you piss yourself.”</p><hr/><p>They followed the coastline, sleeping in abandoned whaling lodges some nights and huddled together behind boulders on others. The times when they had no lodge were the toughest on the witch since she felt it her duty to stay up to keep them warm. She’d be drained and sleep-deprived the next day and their speed would be greatly diminished. </p><p>Peeta offered to carry her. It was the least he could do in exchange for all she had done for him, and she was so light it’d be no burden at all, but her pride was a delicate thing and she refused every time. That was until they hadn’t set foot in a lodge in three days and she was on the verge of collapsing. Peeta didn’t ask this time, he just scooped her up and let her sleep with her face pressed into his chest. </p><p>“You’ve started smiling in your sleep. Did you know that?” she mumbled groggily one day as Peeta walked with her in his arms. </p><p>He chuckled, the crystallized mist of his breath swirling around his head. “How would I know that? I’m the one sleeping.” </p><p>She laughed lightly and curled her hand in the wolf’s fur of his cloak. He could hear a smile tinging her voice when she responded. “What do you dream about?” </p><p>He lied. “Home. Sjorkden.” </p><p>“Do you have a family, lieutenant?” </p><p>“I do,” Peeta said solemnly. “Or I did.” He wasn’t thinking of his blood. Older brothers with a taste for cruelty. A timid father who retreated into a mixing bowl whenever trouble brewed. A mother with a short temper and an even shorter supply of love for her youngest son. She had called him ‘runt’ before he worked up the courage to run away and enroll in the academy. </p><p>Whoever first said “blood is thicker than water” was a fool. Peeta had seen barrels worth of blood wash away in water. He had seen his home town swallowed up by mists from the deck of a ship. He had seen his mother weeping over another lost child running down her legs and then turn to beat her living, breathing sons the same day. Blood meant nothing.</p><p>No, he did not think of his blood. He was thinking instead of his brothers in arms, the men he’d known as boys, the sparring circles and the holiday feasts, the proud slaps on the back, the dirty inside jokes, and the secret drunken parties held when the masters went to bed. He felt a hollow ache deep in his chest when he remembered most of his friends were dead, lost in a never-ending crusade that had been handed down to them like a dusty, blood-soaked artifact of another time. </p><p>And then he thought of her and with no magic involved, his heartbeat quickened. </p><p>She was all he had left. </p><p>“I had a family too,” she whispered and Peeta heard the words she wouldn’t say out loud. </p><p>
  <em> A raid. </em>
</p><p>“When?” he pressed cautiously, afraid of pushing her to open up to him again. It happened so rarely that she would let a scrap of her life from before <em> The Bloody Rose </em>loose. He knew she had lived in Ellsworth for a few years, the merchant town where the commander had found her, working off a steep indenture in a pleasure house. But she was a Heartrender, originally from the southeastern country of Krell, a land thick with forest and swamp. She was a girl of humid summers and wooden houses, not the chilled stone harbors of a trading port. </p><p>“I was eleven when they took my father, thirteen when my mother disappeared, and-” her voice trembled, though she tried to hide it. “They burned Primrose last year.” </p><p>The witch said <em>they </em>but all Peeta could hear was <em>you. </em> He wanted to console her but what could he say when he and his people were the cause of her suffering? Peeta had turned in plenty of young women to the council. What if one of them had been her sister? Guilt gripped his throat, his stomach, his lungs. He felt heavy with self-loathing. </p><p>Perhaps it wasn’t her that was the monster. Perhaps it was him. </p><p>Perhaps it had been him all along.</p><p>With words stuck in his throat, he walked with just the wind and the crunching of his own steps to break up the silence. </p><p>“It’s nice that you’ll have somewhere to go if we get out of this,” she said in an attempt to change the subject. </p><p>Peeta had flashed her a small smile, but his insides withered like flowers in a frost. </p><p>He didn’t really. Not anymore. </p><p>At least, not in Sjorkden. </p><hr/><p>The witch walked near the cliffside, peering down at the black sand beach every once in a while. Peeta knew she stepped lightly and was careful with her footing, but still, he didn’t like her so close to the edge. He pulled her away. </p><p>“Stop,” she grumbled, twisting her arm out of his grasp. </p><p>Peeta clenched his jaw but didn’t try touching her again. </p><p>She narrowed her eyes at his sour expression. “I’m being careful, I swear.”</p><p>“What are you looking for?” he demanded. </p><p>“A way down. I’m sick of this cliffside,” she said as she returned to the edge. </p><p>“We don’t have time for a stroll on the beach.”</p><p>She scowled. “The last time I checked, we have all the time in the world.”</p><p>“We need to stay on course or we’ll never get to Fjordhingă.”</p><p>“About that…” The witch pursed her lips, suddenly unable to look him in the eye. “I’m not going.” </p><p>“What?” he sputtered. When had she decided this?</p><p>“There’s nothing for me there. It’s just another merchant town and I’ve had my fill of those.”</p><p>Peeta scrubbed a hand over his face. His fingers grazed the thick stubble on his jaw. “We’re not going to be <em> staying </em> there.”</p><p>“Then where will we be going?”</p><p>His lips started forming the word <em> Sjorkden</em>, but that wasn’t right. His homeland was no place for her. So what was he going to do when they arrived in Fjordhingă? He couldn’t bring her back to Sjorkden and turn her in. She’d be imprisoned, tried, and then burned. That was no longer an option. But if he let her go… </p><p>He couldn’t bear the thought. Not being with her. If he watched her board a ship and stowaway to her homeland, a raid ravaged country she didn’t even seem to want to return to, he knew a piece of himself would be carried off with her. A piece he’d never get back. But what choice did he have? </p><p>A small part of him missed when she had just been ‘the witch’ and not something more. He missed when things were black and white, not muddled shades of gray. Nothing made sense now. Not the golden warmth that passed through him when she smiled. Not the sickening, vengeful bottoming out of his heart when she cried. He found himself <em>hating </em>the men that had touched her, used her body for their own lustful releases. He daydreamed of hunting each and every one of them down and cutting off their fingers, one by one. But why stop at the fingers? Why not make a brilliant bloodbath of it? A final crusade. </p><p>Perhaps that’s what they would do. </p><p>But just as Peeta opened his mouth to answer, unsure of what exactly was going to come out, the rock gave and the witch plummeted down the cliffside. </p><hr/><p>The masters had taught Peeta not to give in to panic, to take danger in both hands and bend it to his will, until what he had wasn’t a dangerous situation, but a controlled one, preferably in his favor. </p><p>All those lessons went out the window as he watched her scrabbling to find purchase on the cliff face. </p><p>Instead of eerily calm, he felt the world tilting in and out of focus. A fiery rush of adrenaline alighted his nerves as if he were made of oil-soaked paper and someone had thrown a match at him. </p><p>He wrenched his pack off and dove, just barely managing to grab onto her wrists before she lost her grip on a loose root, but not before he cut the inside of his forearm on a jutting rock ledge. The rock sliced through fabric and flesh, the hot, tearing pain erupting up his arm as the weight of the witch and her pack pulled him down. His screams echoed out across the sea. </p><p>“Don’t let go,” she whimpered. Below her dangling body was a six-hundred-foot drop, more than enough to shatter her bones and dash her brains from her skull if she slipped. He thought she had been cut as well when he saw dark red seeping into her skirts, but as his vision blurred and blackened around the edges he realized it was his own blood running down her body. His hand and her wrist were slickened with it and soon she only clung to him by one arm. Peeta braced himself and slowly lifted her up the cliff, digging the tops of his feet into the ground to keep himself anchored. </p><p>She was shaking like a leaf, her heart beating so hard Peeta could feel it under his palms as he hauled her onto stable ground. When her legs cleared the edge, she crawled on hands and knees to vomit into a dead bush while Peeta rolled onto his back to cradle the throbbing, torn flesh of his arm against his chest. Perhaps it was only a minute or perhaps it had been many when the witch finally crawled to his side, her face swimming above him. She lifted shaking hands to his wound, her fingers slipping over muscle and blood as she began chanting lowly in Krellian. </p><p>There was a tingling warmth, an emerald green light, the feeling of flesh slowly knitting itself back together, fiber by fiber. He lifted his good hand to caress her cheek, wiping the tears away. He hated when she cried.</p><p>“Stay still,” she ordered tremulously. “Please, just stay still.” As the edges of his vision blackened and he was pulled down into unconsciousness, only one thought registered. </p><p>What a terrible hunter he must be to have fallen in love with his prey. </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em> Lay me down </em>
</p><p>
  <em> onto a bed of  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> my flaws. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Hold yourself above </em>
</p><p>
  <em> me, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> let your wings </em>
</p><p>
  <em> grace the ceiling </em>
</p><p>
  <em> as I show you just </em>
</p><p>
  <em> how much of </em>
</p><p>
  <em> an angel you truly are. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> -Christopher Poindexter </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p>Before the shipwreck and the nights spent pressed against the witch, Peeta rarely had good dreams. He had nightmares or he had nothing, so when he dreamed of the sound of her footsteps at the door after a long day, the thrumming heat of her body in a moonlight bathed bed, or of the fluttering of two heartbeats underneath his palms, he thought perhaps he had died and this vision was his reward for one good act in a lifetime drenched in blood. </p><p>He had saved her. They were even. </p><p>He could die with that. </p><p>But all too soon the dream ended and he sank into a shallow realm between sleep and consciousness. </p><p>Animal skin walls. Ashwood beams. The fragrant smoke of a cooking fire. The press of warm lips to a cool forehead. </p><p>The passing of time blurred. The only constant he was aware of were hands. Gentle caresses to his brow, his cheeks, the pad of a thumb caught on his chapped bottom lip, knuckles against his jaw, a single fingertip running along the slope of his nose. She sang Krellian lullabies in husky tones, whispered prayers against his throat, traced cool runes into his skin with water, rubbed the warmth back into his numb feet. </p><p>
  <em> Trӕvani ᶌala ką. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Stay with me. </em>
</p><p>“Always,” he mumbled in his mother tongue. </p><hr/><p>“You need a haircut,” she said accusingly as she lifted the knife above his head. Her silver eyes flashed dangerously, a warning, that if he didn’t cooperate, she’d make him. </p><p>The shipwreck had been nearly two months ago, his injury about a week, and in that time his hair had grown in waves well past his ears. He’d had close shaves when he was in training, a clean face too, but he liked the feel of shagginess on his neck and a thickening beard. Though apparently, the witch liked when his hair was more manageable. </p><p>“You need a bath too,” she grumbled as she swatted his hands away and carefully started trimming.</p><p>“You offering?” he quipped.</p><p>The witch snorted, undeterred from her task. “You wash my back, I wash yours. That’s how it works around here.” </p><p>Peeta wasn’t sure if that was a yes or a no. </p><p>They sat together by the fire. She was perched upon her knees, a ring of blond forming soundlessly on the hard-packed dirt. As she worked, Peeta traced a finger over the jagged, pink scar on his forearm. </p><p>The witch had saved his life. Again. If it wasn’t for her and that spell, Peeta would have bled out. The cut was deep, almost to the bone, and had severed many nerves and arteries. The muscle tissue would normally be beyond repair, but now, besides the scar which the Heartrender had sheepishly admitted she wasn’t skilled enough to erase, there was no trace of injury. No pain when he circled his wrist, no twinge when he flexed his fingers. Almost as if nothing had happened. But something had happened. He felt the shift almost as soon as he was conscious enough to sit up and drink on his own. </p><p>This was no longer a game of survival, a cease-fire between warring parties. They had come to cross some invisible threshold. The first truce had been borne through words alone, the second through her restraint, but this partnership was borne through Peeta’s actions, the risk he took in that dive, almost dying in her stead.</p><p>She wouldn’t forget that. </p><p>The witch came to kneel in front of him and set the knife down, brushing the remaining strands of hair from his shoulders. Peeta watched her thoughtfully. Her lashes were as dark as dried ink on parchment paper and her face looked fuller than it had on the ship, her cheeks glowing like polished bronze medallions in the firelight. Peeta admired her lips the most. Pink, full, and slightly parted. Plump as a dew crusted rose in spring. Her tongue danced behind her teeth when she opened her mouth to speak. </p><p>“You should kiss me.”</p><p>Peeta’s mind went blank. “What?”</p><p>“Or don’t. It’s up to you.” She had shrugged then, a small smile curling her lips as if she knew a secret he didn’t. “I’m a very good kisser though.”</p><p>Peeta had never kissed a woman before, and she had worked in a pleasure house. Surely she was used to men with more experience than him. Though that had been a job to her, a means to get by, an indenture she had been forced to agree to. </p><p>This was something entirely different. </p><p>His cheeks flushed as his body responded, his mind going fuzzy with desire. He wasn’t just thinking of kissing when he said: “I don’t know how.” </p><p>“I’m a good teacher. Besides, I like that you’ve never known another woman. That means I have no competition,” she said lowly as she leaned into him. </p><p>“You wouldn’t have competition even if I had,” he breathed, and then she closed the scrap of space between their bodies. </p><p>If he was back in Sjorkden, if he had completed his blood cull and turned in fifty witches, if he had been granted his talisman, a polished stone artifact that would symbolize his ascent from soldier to honored veteran, he would be spending the winter in fruition. He would have chosen a noblewoman to court, dined with her family, brought her gifts of ice wine and shimmery sapphire cloth, and only after their intertwined hands had been bound by silken <em>Siyana</em> ribbons, only after her golden bridal plaits were undone and left to fall loosely across her shrouded shoulders, only after they burned a winter rose and let the fragrant smoke settle upon their skin, would he be permitted to kiss her for the first time, under the eyes of god and before the eyes of her father. As was proper.</p><p>This was not that kiss. </p><p>It was better. </p><p>The witch’s lips were soft and tasted of salt, though something deeper lay beneath the remains of their last meal. Drops of amber honey, the bittersweet juice of <em>frukkala </em> berries, the earthy notes of pine bark. </p><p>Her mouth guided his as she twined her arms around his neck. Slowly at first, and then something snapped and she pressed her tongue into his mouth with a desperation bordering on hunger. </p><p>Peeta trembled where he held her, running his fingers down the soft fabrics of her dress, circling the dip of her hips and then climbing up the even bumps of her rib cage. He didn’t want to break the kiss but he was suddenly overcome with the urge to brush his lips against the hollow of her collarbone. She sighed in appreciation when he did just that. </p><p>Her skin was flawless, smooth, pliable. Heat radiated from her like coals, the silky steadiness licking at his flesh as he undid the ties of her dress. The fabric fell away and Peeta’s eyes slowly raked over her nakedness. She was small but she was stunning, her body lean and sinewy like a willow nymph from a fairytale. Her breasts were pert and Peeta watched firelight dance over her pebbling nipples. The sight sent heat straight to his groin until the building pressure was almost painful. </p><p>“Your turn,” she said as she lifted his tunic over his head, lightly tracing silvery white scars across his collarbones, chasing them down his chest, his navel, until she reached the line of dark blond hair that disappeared past his trousers. Her fingers stilled, her gaze flickered up to his, and Peeta took the opportunity to wind his hand into her hair and pull her down for another kiss. </p><p>He remembered the press of her naked body the first night they’d slept against one another. His desire then had been shameful, sprung up from some twisted part of him he had tried to hide behind hatred and mistrust. But <em>this. </em> This desire roared unchecked through his body, burning infinitely hotter now that he knew she wanted him as desperately as he wanted her. </p><p>“Maybe we should move away from the fire,” Peeta suggested breathlessly in between kisses. </p><p>“No,” she murmured huskily. “I’m going to take you right here.” She pushed him down onto his back into their nest of furs and lifted her legs to straddle him, grinning when she felt the press of his hardened erection under her hips. She pinned his wrists up by his ears as she lay her body on top of his, rubbing her core against him in slow, even circles. His cock throbbed, straining to get out from the confines of his pants. </p><p>“You’re such a tease,” he groaned. </p><p>“It’s more fun that way,” she whispered cheekily, and then she released his wrists and clasped his face between her palms, kissing him ever so slowly, worrying his bottom lip between her teeth. The sensation made him dizzy. </p><p>“Have you ever felt this good before?” she asked in a sigh.</p><p>“Only in dreams,” he responded as he chased her lips and pressed his palms into the small of her back. </p><p>She pulled away, an intense curiosity alighting her eyes. “What do you <em> really </em> dream about?”</p><p>“You,” he whispered. “And me.”</p><p>Her lips curled into a sultry grin as she softened and leaned down to press her mouth to the hollow below his ear. He turned his head to give her more room. “And what do we do together in these dreams?” she purred as she sucked on his neck. </p><p>“Everything.”</p><p>She laughed against his skin. “You’re lying.”</p><p>“It’s the truth,” he said defensively, but the smile threatening to crack his face open seeped into his voice and made him sound as if he were joking.</p><p>She moved away again and Peeta was about to object, pull her back, crash those beautiful lips against his own once more, but there was no need as she ran a gentle hand down the line of his abdomen and then slowly, inch by inch, pulled his pants down his thighs. He hissed when his cock sprang free and bounced onto his stomach. She was so close he could feel the wet heat of her breath fanning over his skin.</p><p>The witch raised a brow, admiring his size. Peeta knew from spending nearly a decade at the academy and then a number of years on witching vessels that he was… well endowed. You don’t spend that much time among men without seeing <em>something</em>, and to compare one’s self to others was human nature. </p><p>He pulsed in her soft hand as she pulled his foreskin down, revealing the glistening pink head. She ran a gentle thumb along the ridge. Then she leaned down and slowly took him into her mouth.</p><p>Peeta had never felt so vulnerable. </p><p>It was like she commanded full control of him. She simply had to twirl her tongue around the head and he would groan and buck his hips without even meaning to. She worked the base with her hands and hollowed out her cheeks, flicking the ridge with her tongue, caressing the slit, tasting him as no woman had before. </p><p>Peeta moaned loudly and clenched his abdomen. His thighs trembled. Suddenly, she stalled, squeezed the base in her hands, and then lewdly popped his length out from between her lips. </p><p>“Eager aren’t we?” she purred. </p><p>Another moan escaped him as she began pumping, using her saliva as a lubricant. The delicious feeling of her hands rucking up his skin was almost enough to make him unravel. The wet sounds of her attentions filled the lodge as his nerves kindled, blazing like a wick burning from both ends.</p><p>“Slow down,” he begged, embarrassed by how ragged and breathy his voice had become. He felt weakened from being wrapped in her hands but he realized he didn’t mind. It was a good weakness, the kind that left you warm and a little watery in the knees. The tight pleasure coiling in his body was mounting past anything he had ever reached on his own. It was agony when he stalled her hands and his pleasure plummeted.</p><p>“I don’t want to come yet,” he panted, lifting his head to look at her. She still grasped him in her hands. His rounded tip was blush red where her tongue had been. It was perhaps the most deliciously erotic sight he had ever witnessed. </p><p>She drew her eyebrows together, revealing that cute little brow crease.</p><p>“I want to make you feel good too,” he said, brushing the hair off her shoulder. </p><p>“What do you have in mind?” she challenged before running the tip of her tongue up along a bulging vein of his shaft. It was wholly distracting. </p><p>“You… you’re going to have to stop that first.” He lifted his eyes upwards.</p><p>“Are you praying?”</p><p>“Maybe.”</p><p>She picked up on his nervousness, folding her tongue back into her mouth. “Look, if you’re not ready, you’re not ready,” she said, but that wasn’t it at all. He was ready, he was just hesitant. He didn’t know the workings of a woman’s body. He knew only his own, the strength he possessed and the burdens he could bear, the battles he could wage and the soaring pleasures he could summon using his own two hands. He knew her, he just didn’t know how she was put together, and therefore, he didn’t know how to make her fall apart. But that would all change if he could just swallow his insecurities. </p><p>“Come here,” he beckoned, wetting his lips nervously. </p><p>He had grown up surrounded by boys of all ages, and though they were never permitted to indulge in the union of flesh, both because there were no girls at the academy and because it was forbidden for witch hunters to do so, he had still heard raunchy tales of all the things men and women could do in bed together.</p><p>And he had one particular act in mind. </p><p>She softly tapped the head of his cock against her lips as if deep in thought. Each brush sent sparks traveling down his shaft. “That’s a tad ambitious for your first time,” she murmured, but Peeta could tell she was happily surprised at his offer. He had fingers and lips and tongue. Peeta was unpracticed, but he knew with her guidance he could satisfy her. </p><p>“You said you were a good teacher,” he reminded her, the timbre of his voice taking on a gravelly deepness. “Teach me how to please you.” </p><p>She set him down and then slowly, with back arched and eyes hooded, climbed over his body. Her long black hair fell from her shoulders like a spill of water.</p><p>“Higher,” he instructed, allowing the pads of his fingertips to stroke the springy flesh of her breasts and then the planes of her bare stomach as she continued climbing. She settled her thighs on either side of his head allowing Peeta a good view. He looped his arms under her legs to anchor her in place and splayed his hands over her lower back. Underneath a thick tuft of hair was her core, pink, swollen, and blooming like a flower in spring. Peeta’s cock jumped at the sight. </p><p>“If you want to please me you’re going to have to do more than stare at me, lieutenant,” she laughed. </p><p>Peeta steeled himself and swept a finger along her folds. It was a shallow caress, a tentative touch, but his fingertips came away glistening with her essence. </p><p>He exhaled slowly, watching as the witch’s slit leaked her arousal. There was a heavy moment, the air pregnant with the crackle of potential, until eventually, Peeta gathered the courage to flatten his tongue and taste her. </p><p>She tasted sweet. Musky. </p><p>She tasted human. </p><p>Her body tensed, responding to his touch. “Right here,” she breathed as she pressed a set of fingers to a small bud at the apex of her entrance. He lifted a thumb to the spot, thankful when she guided him in slow circles. With her instruction, he used his tongue to gently caress her lips and his thumb to circle her clit, humming appreciatively whenever he felt her flutter. </p><p>“Your beard tickles,” she laughed when she determined he had gotten the hang of it. She leaned back to rest her hands on the corded muscles of his thighs, thrusting her chest up to the ceiling and bucking her hips slowly along with his rhythm. He was moving more on instinct than anything else when he dipped his tongue inside of her. </p><p>It took time and he knew he was being clumsy, but the witch wouldn’t let him stop. His tongue was heavy and jaw sore when she replaced his fingers with her own, increasing the pressure and riding his mouth to release. </p><p>Her spine snapped, her eyes slid closed, curses fell from her lips, and something primal within Peeta awakened. He found himself desperately pulling her closer, lapping at her entrance, milking her release, and swallowing her arousal. </p><p>When it was over her core pulsed faintly and she opened her eyes to smile languidly down at him. Peeta’s tongue slowed. “You have something…” She broke into giggles and then brushed at his lips with her fingers, managing to smear even more of herself on him. “Sorry.” </p><p>“Don’t apologize,” he smiled, lips tingling. He liked this view. Her dewy skin seemed to glow like the very embers smoldering not three feet away. </p><p>“Before we do this,” she said, unhooking her legs from around his head and coming to once again grasp him firmly in her hands, “I need you to promise you won’t finish inside of me.”</p><p>His breath caught as he imagined it. </p><p>Being inside of her. </p><p>“I won’t.”</p><p>“Promise me,” she pressed, pumping him idly. </p><p>It was an absurd situation. Surely a man would promise anything to a vixen grasping his very manhood in her hands. But to Peeta, it was more than that. He had her trust and here was a chance to prove he deserved it.</p><p>“I promise.” </p><p>With their deal struck, the witch mounted him. Peeta admired her figure in the gilded firelight once more, brushing his fingers against her peaked nipples and kneading the comely flesh as he watched the shadows dance and pool in the dip of her navel. This was a sight he would never be sick of. </p><p>She positioned the head of his shaft at her entrance and slid the tip along her slit to gather slickness, earning a few strangled sounds from Peeta. Her folds were soaked after her orgasm and he slid his hands down her body, gripping the backs of her knees in anticipation. </p><p>“I want you to watch my face as I take you in,” she whispered. “Every last inch.” </p><p>There was a tight, building pressure that suddenly broke into a slide. He slid past her folds, embedded within her. The feeling of the witch’s hot, silky heat molding around him, squeezing his shaft and cradling the head, was unlike anything he had ever experienced. </p><p>Her core fluttered. So did her eyelids.</p><p>“Watch me, lieutenant,” she reminded him as she raised her hips to slam down on him. The wet slap of skin on skin rang through the air.</p><p>“Peeta,” he grunted. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“My name. It’s Peeta.”</p><p>“Peeta.” She sighed his name like a prayer, letting the vowels roll off her tongue as if she were tasting them, and Peeta thought he had never heard it spoken so sweetly. “Nice to meet you, Peeta.”</p><p>His laugh melted into a groan as she clenched around him. He looked down between her legs at where their bodies overlapped. He was embedded to the hilt. She was taking it all. </p><p>Her breasts bounced with her body, and as she pressed down on him, Peeta raised his hips to meet her. </p><p>“Harder,” she begged. </p><p>Peeta slid his hands up her thighs, squeezing the flesh through his fingers like clay and rolling his hips sharply upwards. The head of his cock bumped her cervix. “Like that?”</p><p>The witch gasped, her body clenching with his thrust, and let out a little giggle. “Yes,” she moaned, allowing Peeta to take control of their rhythm. She leaned down to kiss him as he palmed her ass, spreading her open so he could set a faster tempo. </p><p>The small lodge filled with the lewd sounds of slapping skin and heavy grunts. It was ecstasy, being inside of her, and with each thrust, Peeta felt warmer. His skin burned against hers. </p><p>Peeta wanted it to last longer, but as his thrusts stuttered and he felt that familiar tingle in his balls, he knew he couldn’t hold on. The witch started grinding on top of him, tuned into his body’s tells; the increasing cadence of his breath, the tremors in his hands, the intensity of his thrusts. It was time to keep his promise. </p><p>With a toe-curling shudder and a string of unintelligible curses in his mother tongue, Peeta pulled out and finished onto his own stomach, his hot seed quickly cooling on his skin. The witch panted above him, one hand splayed over his chest, another by his head, supporting her weight. Her skin shone with sweat and the loose hairs on her nape were damp. </p><p>“Let me clean you up,” the witch purred and Peeta watched in disbelief as she unhooked her legs from around him and shifted down. Her pink tongue darted out to lick the spend off his skin, and then she slowly traced up the ridges of his cock to capture the last pearlescent dribbles off the hypersensitive head, licking that clean too as if she were finishing something delicious. She stuck out her tongue to show him. </p><p>She had swallowed it all. </p><p>“You are something else,” he laughed giddily. He had never felt so satisfied and tired at the same time. He laid his head back on the pelts as the witch gently toyed with him softening in her hand. Her palm glided slowly, slickened by her arousal.</p><p>“I knew you were a virgin but I didn’t know you were a <em> virgin</em>,” she said.</p><p>“What do you mean?” Peeta asked, suddenly embarrassed. Had he done something wrong?</p><p>“You never got a blow job when you were younger? Not even a handy?”</p><p>He wasn’t sure how she could possibly have known that, but perhaps he had been too loud. Was that possible? His face flushed with heat. “No. I… I was never really around girls. Not until now at least.” </p><p>She smiled softly, carefully placed him down, and then crawled up his body to rest her head on his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and stroked her hair, tugging gently on her scalp. The strands were slightly knotted, but after Peeta had run his fingers through the tresses a few times, they felt as soft as silk. A spill of ebony satin. Any fabric that wasn’t the rough spun texture of his tunics.</p><p>“That was rather good for your first time,” she said. “I thought you’d be more… instantaneous.”</p><p>He chuckled. “I’m a soldier, not a priest.”</p><p>She smiled into his chest hair. “So you’ve satiated your urges all on your own?”</p><p>“You sound surprised.” </p><p>“I am. I thought all Sjorkden witch hunters were pious and pleasure starved.”</p><p>“Perhaps not pleasure <em>starved </em>but pleasure...hungry. It’s not as fulfilling when you’re alone.” </p><p>There was a pause as they listened to the soft crackling of the fire, felt it’s comforting heat on their skin, and watched it’s muted light dance across the walls. </p><p>“Is it bad that I’m happy? That I’m your first, I mean,” she mumbled softly. “I know we don’t owe each other anything, but I’ve wanted this. At least once.”</p><p>“Only once?” he asked, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice. </p><p>He could never go back. Not to his country. Not to his old ways. Not to a life without her. Did she think after they made it back to civilization that he would abandon her? After everything they had been through? After everything she had made him feel? And what was this about him not owing her? He didn’t even know her name but he owed her everything<em>. </em> </p><p>Absolutely everything. </p><p>She lifted her head off his chest and met his eyes. She was searching for something in his expression and the raw intensity of her gaze made him gulp. </p><p>“I don’t want this to have just been once,” he whispered, coming to cup her cheek in his palm and running a calloused thumb over the delicate skin under her eye. </p><p>“Any sane woman of my talent would be afraid of you, <em> valkrӕlla, </em>” she said lowly, her lips parting delicately with her words. She raised her hand to hold his palm against her cheek. “Instead, I find myself unable to let you go.” </p><p>A fierce rush of affection crashed through Peeta’s body. He understood because he felt the same way. </p><p>She was his. </p><p>He was hers. </p><p>Anything else was unthinkable. </p><p>He traced his fingers down the dip of her spine, catching small droplets of sweat. “You must know you have nothing to fear from me,” he insisted, pleading with his eyes, trying to make her understand that he felt it too. That he had been wrong before. That perhaps he didn’t deserve her forgiveness for the way he had let himself despise her, for the way he had treated her. Perhaps he didn’t deserve her at all<em>. </em> But maybe… </p><p>Maybe she would have him anyway.</p><p>“I’m sorry I was so cruel to you, <em> valjakka. </em>”</p><p>
  <em> Beloved.  </em>
</p><p>Her breath hitched. “I know,” she whispered, and then she drew closer, tipping her mouth to his. </p><p>He tasted himself on her tongue.</p><p>Peeta gathered her up and pressed her closer, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her slender body atop his chest. The other kisses had been lustful, desperate in the same way a flame sucks the oxygen from a room. But this one kindled hope. Life. </p><p>It was as if she was air, and he, a drowning man. </p><p>When they had exhausted themselves their lips broke apart and they lay on top of the furs, lapsing into a comfortable silence as Peeta grabbed one to cover their naked bodies. The fire was nearby but the bitter air from outside still managed to creep through the walls, slowly cooling their sweat-slicked skin. </p><p>“Peeta,” she breathed, a small sound of happiness escaping her lips. “Peeta, Peeta, Peeta.”</p><p>“Don’t wear it out,” he joked, but the sound of his name rolling off her tongue and languishing past her lips was like a shot of pure energy. He was keenly aware of how it affected his body, reawakening his lust as he shifted uncomfortably on the floor beneath her. </p><p>“My name is Katniss,” she offered shyly. </p><p><em> Katniss. </em> </p><p>He let the name caress the inside of his skull. The syllables fell from his lips and tangled in her hair. It suited her, hard and soft at the same time. Just like the way she made love. </p><p>He told her so and she laughed. </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Epilogue</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Peeta’s old hatreds finally died as he looked into her eyes and saw humanity reflected back at him. He thought of her as precious and wondered how he had never seen it before. She was a blizzard, an earthquake, a monsoon, all at once. What a beautiful thing it would be to succumb to her power. </p><p>She may have looked all hard planes and edges, but when she made love, she didn’t act like it. Her body was soft, flexible, willing to bend to any shape Peeta pushed her into. In the accompanying weeks, they trekked further north and found shelter not only within lodges but within each other. She had particular tastes and wasn’t afraid to tell him so, and she always claimed ultimate control of what was done to her. </p><p>She was quivering beneath him, legs spread, clawing at his body for dear life when he uttered the ultimate promise against her skin:</p><p>When they arrived in Fjordhingă, he would find honest work as a laborer to pay for their passage onto a ship. They’d sail south past the Narubi Canal, away from the waters of the Undersea and to Xenen or Prӕna Gaul or Caɦn, someplace hot and out of Sjorkden’s reach. They’d make a living off the land and build a house with their own two hands, with walls of salt-aged wood and pink marbled stone, not animal skin and ash. They’d thatch the roof with golden grasses, paint the wooden slats orange or yellow, something bright, and fill the deep window boxes with heavily scented wisteria blossoms and honeysuckle. The garden would be overridden with dragon fruit and mangoes and persimmons which they’d slice and eat for breakfast. They’d dry the salt from seawater and keep a pen full of pigs. Wear the light cotton clothes best suited for heat and humidity and tear them off each other to make love on the beach. Every night, they’d watch the sky catch fire, a brilliant dying world of smoldering citrine and blood blush clouds. They’d carve out a new life away from the titles of ‘witch’ and ‘witch hunter’. A fresh start without the black shadow of Sjorkden or the bleak memories of Krell to hang over the domestic and companionable goings-on of each day. </p><p>And when she allowed it, any child they created together, any seed of his that sprung from the wet earth of her womb and wailed itself into existence, he promised, just like her, would wield dominion over his heart for as long as he lived, and perhaps even after that.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>THE END</b>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading ‘The Heartrender’. This has truly been one of my favorite stories to write of all time.</p><p>Originally, this was going to be a stand-alone, four-chapter fic, but some of you readers (as well as my beta. Very strongly, lol) have expressed that they’d be interested in reading more. </p><p>I want to be clear that I’m making no explicit promises here because I’m working on finishing another fic right now, I’m a full-time college student, and I have a part-time job (yikes) but I wouldn’t be opposed to revisiting this little universe and perhaps writing a sequel in the future (though how far in the future is unknown.)</p><p>  <strong>If and when I write a sequel, I will post an announcement in the form of a fifth chapter on this fic. If you’d like to be notified please subscribe to either the series or this work.</strong></p><p>And as always, stay safe friends💕</p><p>-Izza</p><p>P.S. I’ve already started to have ideas for a sequel and now I have a brainstorm doc. Might goof off and write all of it, lmao</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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